Wild Justice
by Runedancer
Summary: A continuation of Quid Pro Quo in which things become complicated. Slash, of course.
1. Chapter One

Title: Wild Justice 1/?  
  
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer2000@yahoo.com  
  
Rating: R  
  
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin  
  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline and my precious, evil mind.   
  
Feedback: Please!  
  
Warnings: BDSM. Be warned--this is a very naughty fic. I am a bad person and I promise I'll be spanked later (and hopefully often).  
  
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc (and yes, I know, it is getting entirely out of hand.) Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused and to miss inside jokes.   
  
* * *  
  
Elrond managed to wriggle out of his bonds and return to his chambers unseen, or at least he hoped so. Wartime stealth training had its uses, especially when one's father-in-law happened to be insane. He had immediately dressed and gone looking for Celeborn, a strange calm filling him. He was not even upset when he was told that Celeborn had already returned to the Golden Wood. He had not ranted, raved or thrown anything--had not even wanted to do so. He simply returned to his room, undressed once more, and lay on his bed, enjoying the feel of the cool breeze from the open window on his bare skin. From where he lay, Elrond could see the evening stars shining brightly over the treetops, and their familiar light was soothing. He was surprised at how serene he felt, as if there was no great decision before him. After a moment's reflection he realised that it was not so much that a decision did not exist as that he had already made it.   
  
Celeborn had to pay. Oh, yes. Of that, there was no longer any doubt. But, more than that, he had to be made to pay elegantly, subtly, and fully. No longer would a simple display of submission be enough, for Celeborn had dared what no one had in 6,000 years, and that sort of humiliation deserved something special in return. There was also Galadriel to consider. The elf queen was just as much to blame, as far as Elrond was concerned, as her dear husband. She had also humiliated him and caused him three days and nights of unspeakable torment, although, in her case, he did accept that there had been some provocation. The same could not be said for Celeborn, who had brought this on both himself and Elrond with seemingly no concern for the consequences. It was also a consideration that, in this, there was the possibility that Elrond would need an ally.   
  
His eyes glowed silver in the night, as he managed to farspeak his mother-in-law. Thoughts were conveyed and images passed, along with that one careless comment of Celeborn's, "Leave my wife to me. I have something special in mind for her." After a time, all alone in his room, Elrond began to smile.   
  
* * *  
  
Orophin of Lorien was a stunning elf. Both of Haldir's brothers had the same aristocratic bone structure and exquisite fair colouring characteristic of Silvan elves, but there was an added grace to their movements and a predatory look in their beautiful eyes that reminded Elrohir of great, wild cats on the prowl. Orophin, the tallest and leanest of the three, especially conveyed the impression of a big, sleepy feline, draped bonelessly as he was along a tree limb, his eyes half lidded with ennui--until, that is, they fell on their party. One look at the fair elf at Elrohir's side and Orophin's face lit up as if his birthday had come early. Although they already had a guide, who had met them near Lorien's borders to escort them to the Lord and Lady, Orophin quickly volunteered to join them. Before Elrohir could think of a reason to refuse, he hopped off his perch and dropped gracefully to the ground, retaining his balance although his eyes never left their party. Elrohir hated him on sight.   
  
Glorfindel did not seem to notice the Galadrim's regard, being too busy chatting with Erestor who rode to his left. Elrohir wished, not for the first time, that his lover was a little less flamboyant in appearance. Glorfindel was looking especially edible that morning, attired in a royal blue velvet tunic with deep bell sleeves along which white embroidery carved the outlines of birds and flowers. His silver white leggings hugged his thighs like a second skin, displaying the shift and play of his muscles as he easily guided his large white stallion. It was one of a line of magnificent horses, all descendants of the same sire, and all quite impossible to tame--by anyone but Glorfindel. Honey blond hair spilled down his back in a careless wave, unconfined as he preferred to wear it, and his indigo eyes were lit by amusement at some inanity Erestor had spouted. Orophin's delighted turquoise gaze never left their party and, by the time they reached the outskirts of Caras Galadhon, Elrohir was almost apoplectic. His mood was not helped by the Galadrim's insistence on following them up the stairs, which was, Elrohir was sure, to enable him to watch the way Glorfindel's lean buttocks clenched and relaxed as he climbed them.   
  
Elrohir could feel a tiny pulse throbbing at the base of his throat, and his left eye was twitching slightly, perhaps explaining the odd look his grandmother threw him when they reached the council hall. His reply to her greeting was smooth, however, and he returned her questioning look with an innocent smile. He was fully aware that she had always had trouble reading his thoughts, and he tried now to make his mind as blank as possible. He did not even glance at Orophin, although he was aware that the haughty Galadrim had not left the chamber despite the fact that there was not the slightest reason for him to remain.   
  
The interview was brief, as it was merely designed to welcome Elrohir and his party to the Golden Wood and assign them to their rooms. To Elrohir's annoyance, he discovered that he and Glorfindel had not been given a single chamber, but rather suites on opposite sides of the royal talan. Not that it mattered, of course, he would sleep where he liked, but it concerned him that perhaps it indicated disapproval of the relationship by his grandparents. He sighed. They were both so perfect all the time--no doubt they expected him to make a loveless but politically correct union as his mother had done. Well, too bad. He was not giving up Glorfindel, no matter the coercion that might be used, so they had best just forget it. He had spent his whole life being the good son, and the good grandson, but on this he was immovable.   
  
Elrohir wanted to protest when his grandparents invited Glorfindel to remain for a political discussion. He was about to point out that the whole party was tired and needed rest after their journey--intending to grab a quick session with his lover before dinner--but Erestor chimed in with a request for a tour of the city. After that, he could hardly claim to be tired if an old elf like Erestor was still bouncing with energy. Indeed, Erestor had seemed unusually vivacious ever since they left Imladris, although why remained a mystery. Elrohir could not even fathom why he had come along. This was supposed to be his and Glorfindel's journey, but somehow they had acquired quite an entourage. Two Noldorian servants of his grandmother had accompanied them--although why they had not returned with her after her recent visit had never been explained--and Haldir and Gildor had also ridden along. At least the latter was understandable as the Marchwarden had already spent a good deal of time at Imladris for no particular reason that Elrohir could see. Normally, couriers delivered their messages and went home, but Haldir had stuck around for several weeks, apparently doing nothing more than seducing Elrond and then Gildor. Elrohir was beginning to dislike his entire family.  
  
His indignation increased as Orophin was delegated by Lord Celeborn to show them about Imladris. On the one hand, it did keep him away from Glorfindel, but, on the other, it meant that Elrohir had to endure his presence all afternoon. He was effrontery personified, and apparently as depraved as his brother, for he never missed an opportunity to brush up against him or hold his arm as they made their way along Lorien's many swaying rope bridges. Honestly, one would think he was an invalid in need of aid! Just to prove a point, Elrohir took a short cut as they neared the hot springs, sliding several stories down a rope support that slanted towards the ground while the others descended by way of the more traditional ladder.  
  
"You would make a good border guard, young one," Orophin told him once they had caught up. "Let us know if you ever tire of the decadent life of a princeling and want something useful to do!" He moved ahead before Elrohir could think of a suitably cutting reply.  
  
Erestor declared that he had to have a bath in the springs, and Elrohir reluctantly agreed to accompany him. He was surprised to note, as they settled into the steamy water in one of the inner caves, that Erestor was not as pudgy in the flesh as the rather old fashioned robes he favoured usually made him appear. Indeed, a nearby young elf was eyeing him with what looked like distinct interest. Elrohir tried momentarily to see him objectively, but it didn't work. He supposed the black drape of his hair--such an unusual colour for elves, which matched his obsidian eyes--was pleasing, and his body, despite being that of a very old elf indeed, looked quite youthful. But, to Elrohir, he was just Erestor--his tutor, mother substitute and, occasionally, friend--he simply couldn't see him any other way.   
  
So caught up was Elrohir in trying to decipher the mystery of his old tutor's appeal, that it took him a moment to realise that Orophin had also disrobed and joined the small party of elves in the pool. Elrohir moved another few feet away, ostensibly to give him more room, but Orophin followed him. With almost unbelievable impudence, he caught up a strand of Elrohir's chestnut hair and ran it through his fingers. "So remarkable," he murmured, "like the bark of a young oak when the sun shines upon it." Elrohir regarded him with disdain, but the presence of others kept him from expressing his annoyance in clear terms. Instead, he simply moved farther away, settling near Erestor who was sprawled out in apparently blissful abandon at the deeper end of the water. His head thrown back, his eyes closed, his full, red lips open, he soaked up the steam as if he had been starved for it. Which was silly, Elrohir thought, as they had a perfectly good steam bath at Imladris. It was obvious, however, that Erestor was not going to be much good as a diversion, a fact that was especially irritating when Orophin swam over to join them.  
  
Crowded into a small niche at the deep end of the pool, Elrohir balanced on the narrow rocky ledge running along the wall three feet or so below the water line. When he tried to shy away from Orophin's presence once again, however, he lost his footing and plunged under the hot water. He was a perfectly good swimmer, for Elrond had insisted that all three of his children be taught at an early age, but before he had a chance to kick off from the bottom, he was caught in strong arms and pulled back to the surface. He emerged from the water to find himself clasped to Orophin's chest, while their legs intertwined. "What . . . what do you think you're doing?," he sputtered, when he'd drawn in enough air to be able to speak.  
  
"Rescuing you. Lord Celeborn made me responsible for your party, after all." The mocking expression on Orophin's face would have been enough to enrage Elrohir, but the fact that he suddenly felt a strong hand caressing his buttocks was enough to make him forget about propriety in front of the other elves. He sucked in enough air to allow him to hold forth at length on the subject of Orophin's many failings, while at the same time kicked at him to remove the unwanted embrace. Orophin thwarted both intentions by simply dropping off the ledge and dragging Elrohir with him, back under the steamy water. The annoying creature then took advantage of his disorientation to slip a practised tongue between his lips. Under the circumstances, Elrohir thought he could be forgiven for biting it . . . so he did, hard.  
  
Orophin released him and Elrohir quickly returned to the surface, amazed to find that everyone else was still in the languid positions in which he'd last seen them. How could they possibly be so blind? At that instant, Orophin's wild eyed countenance broke the surface and sent a wave splashing over Erestor, who sputtered and made enough of a fuss that Elrohir was able to escape. Looking back as he hauled himself out of the pool, he saw Orophin's eyes on him, and they glittered in a way Elrohir didn't like at all. It could be, he thought, as the Galadrim's gaze slid down his water slicked skin and a tiny smile appeared on his lips, that he had been wrong about the object of his interest.  
  
* * *  
  
"You are playing with fire, brother--don't blame me if you end up burned." Haldir was, in truth, not very interested in the discussion into which Orophin had drawn him. His usually level-headed brother had not been able to talk of anything but Elrond's youngest son since the elfling arrived, and after three days the topic was beginning to bore Haldir. Especially as Orophin had managed to trade shifts with a fellow guard and gain himself a period of leave in the city, which meant that Haldir's plans to have the talan all to himself were ruined. It would serve Orophin right if Glorfindel . . . well, maybe not. Haldir didn't think Elrond's counselor would seriously harm his poor, deluded brother, but then, where the Balrog slayer was concerned he would rather not take chances. He turned a serious eye on Orophin. "You are insane. Elrohir belongs to Glorfindel--an orc would have enough sense to leave him be!"  
  
"There is no union between them," Orophin replied sulkily. "They have not bonded, so how do you know my attentions will be unwelcome?"  
  
Haldir humphed, and turned back to the mirror to inspect his latest acquisition. It was truly appalling, but Gildor had liked it . . . he personally did not think red was his colour, but it was almost impossible to refuse his lover anything. All Gildor had to do was look at him with those huge brown eyes of his, and Haldir melted. This time, that meant that he was doomed to appear at the festivities that evening in a blindingly crimson tunic. Still, he thought, cheering up, he was certain Gildor would make his sacrifice worth   
  
while . . . Haldir would see that he did.   
  
Completing his inspection of his toilette, Haldir resumed his attempts to save Orophin's life, or at least his dignity. "From what you told me about this afternoon, I do not think it sounds as if Elrohir was particularly impressed." The young Peredhil had demonstrated his delight in Orophin's interest by overturning a hot bowl of hot broth into his lap at lunch. He had apologised prettily for his clumsiness, but Haldir had heard from a few elves who witnessed the incident that it had looked almost deliberate. What Orophin had done to deserve the attack Haldir didn't know, but he strongly suspected it had been his brother's idea to rearrange the seating so that he occupied the chair beside Elrohir. "In any case, no elf in his right mind would purposely challenge Lord Glorfindel. You ARE mad. Go find another dalliance--this one is too much for you, brother."  
  
Haldir could see that his words had no effect at all, except possibly to make Orophin more determined. "We'll see," he replied, checking on his own reflection with a determined look in his eyes. Haldir gave a shrug; he had tried. He just hoped he wasn't going to be picking a quiver full of arrows out of his brother's stubborn carcass anytime soon. It was fortunate that he had noticed the problem early on, and taken preventative measures . . .   
  
* * *  
  
Elladan stood at the window to his rooms and read again the curious letter Haldir of Lorien had written him. It was absurd--he barely knew the elf--so why would he make such a request of him? Everyone knew his preferences--he had never tried to hide them--so why would Haldir even think of him for such an errand? Of course, he reflected, he and Elrohir did look remarkably alike, and so a substitution might actually be possible, especially since Elrohir and Haldir's brother had just met. Haldir assured him that he would keep them apart as much as possible until Elladan could arrive, but the feasibility of the plan did not mean that he considered it an attractive proposition. On the other hand, Imladris was very dull at the moment, and Lorien contained a large assortment of beautiful Silvan maidens just waiting to be introduced to some of the more interesting bits of knowledge he'd picked up through the years. And if some of them weren't exactly maidens, well, so much the better. Elladan smiled as a gentle wind ruffled his hair. Oh yes, a trip to Lorien sounded like just what he needed.  
  
* * *  
  
Haldir was having trouble containing himself. Gildor had insisted on dressing in a matching tunic and the red that so washed out Haldir's fair complexion added a golden glow to his companion's honey coloured skin and brought out auburn highlights in his long, dark hair. It also molded to his beautiful behind like a second skin, as the only tunic the stall keeper had had that matched Haldir's was a little too tight on Gildor's muscular form. Haldir swallowed and tried to remember that they had at least another hour of this endless party to get through, but it was no use. All he could think about was pressing himself against that slim, hard body, and caressing those smooth, firm   
  
cheeks . . . He looked about a little frantically for somewhere, anywhere, they could be alone, but the cursed talan was crowded with guests and Celeborn stood near the doorway, certain to intercept anyone who tried to leave early and thereby insult his guest of honour.   
  
Haldir accepted the inevitable and ran a hand through his hair, trying to distract himself by concentrating on cataloguing the many different costumes worn by partygoers that evening. The delegation from Mirkwood was especially well dressed, as they always were when visiting the Golden Wood--almost as if Thranduil was making some kind of a statement. The king himself, on a rare diplomatic visit, was especially stunning, attired in a deep green satin robe over a golden tunic. Emeralds shone at his fingers and a huge, carved example of the gem decorated the ostentatious but beautifully made choker he wore. Dwarvin make most likely, Haldir mused; you had to give the annoying creatures credit, they did do stunning work. Of course, it seemed only fitting that they should have SOME use . . .   
  
He was brought out of his reverie by a surreptitious stroke down his back that stopped tantalisingly just before the swell of his hips. Gildor looked innocent, but a mischievous light danced in his brown eyes as he slowly drew Haldir back towards the wall. He found a position in which they were protected from prying eyes on one side by a support beam of the talan and from behind by one of its interior walls. It wasn't much as privacy went, however, for in front of them the party guests passed by in chattering profusion, but it would have to do.   
  
* * *  
  
Elrohir was in hell. He had too much to watch and none of it was good. That cursed brother of Haldir's wouldn't leave him alone, causing him to have to keep moving just to avoid his roving hands. What he couldn't stop was the way Orophin's his eyes roamed over his form as if he was a starving man and Elrohir was a banquet. Even from across the room, it was making Elrohir decidedly uncomfortable. But Orophin was a minor inconvenience when compared to the real, show stopping, evening ruining, desperate threat that was the King of Mirkwood.   
  
Elrohir had thought he would faint when his grandfather had introduced him to Thranduil, who had glanced at him, smiled slightly, and then turned the power of his considerable magnetism full on Glorfindel, where it had stayed ever since. Thranduil was . . . amazing. Even catching only the slightest edges of his personality, as he obviously did not consider Elrohir to be worth bothering to charm, was like being nearby when a flash of lightening hit a tree. Elrohir could feel a frisson humming along his skin from just being near him.  
  
Elrohir had hated Orophin when he thought he might be competition for Glorfindel's affections, but he didn't feel that way about Thranduil. No, this was more like full-blown terror. Observing them now, Elrohir could not deny how well they looked together. They were standing along the edge of the talan, yet somehow, wherever Thranduil was seemed to be the centre of attention. He almost glowed, his silver hair radiant as a star under the light of a nearby lantern. His jade eyes flashed as brightly as the emeralds he wore, and his every gesture, look, and breath was an invitation, but one designed to appeal to one elf alone, the beautiful creature who stood at his side. Elrohir choked on his wine and tried to look away, but it was impossible.  
  
Glorfindel was like the sun to Thranduil's star. His robes of pale green silk perfectly complimented those of Celeborn's guest, his honey coloured hair was a nimbus about his face as his bright blue eyes laughed at something the king had said. Glorfindel's eyes only took on that particular shade when he was genuinely amused, which he had no right to be by that . . . that . . . creature from Mirkwood! And Thranduil kept TOUCHING him, resting a hand on his arm to illustrate a point, leaning just closer than necessary to whisper a comment in his ear, bantering with him as if they'd known each other their whole lives. Which they most certainly had not! Had Thranduil EVER visited Imladris? No, and even his visits to Lorien had been few and far between. So what right did he have, laughing so easily and joking so intimately, with an elf he barely even knew? And Elrohir's elf at that. Glorfindel was HIS, and . . .   
  
A sudden burst of pain caused Elrohir to look down and see that his wine glass had shattered. Cursed things, he thought, picking shards out of his palm, they made them better at Imladris. Of course, everything was better at Imladris, where, for instance, you didn't have gorgeous elf kings trying to steal your lover from you right in front of your very nose . . . Elrohir glared at Orophin, who had sidled up alongside him to proffer a handkerchief, and stalked off in the direction of his wayward lover. Thranduil had better watch out, or he might accidentally slip off the talan and plummet head first to the hard forest floor below. Yes, that would just be a shame.  
  
* * *  
  
Haldir, who had been positioned facing the crowd by his naughty companion, could not see what Gildor was up to behind him. He was not sure what to expect, as his lover usually let him take the initiative, and the fact that Gildor had suddenly chosen to do so, and in such an open location, was enough to cause a warm wave of desire to flood Haldir's entire body. He felt Gildor's hands slide beneath his robe, a cherry coloured affair to match his tunic, and pull up the hem from the back so that Haldir continued to look respectable from the front. Haldir had to maintain a placid countenance while warm hands explored his back and cupped him lightly before reaching lower to tug up the hem of his tunic. He could not repress a shiver of delight as those so talented hands slid up his inner thighs, but he did swiftly close the front of his robe so that, hopefully, he would not have to explain to Celeborn on the morrow why he had spent most of Thranduil's welcoming party being felt up.  
  
Haldir's thoughts soon grew too chaotic for such concerns, however, as Gildor continued his public seduction. The air was suffused with his scent--honey sweet and spicy; it was, Haldir fervently believed, the most intoxicating aroma he knew. His vision began to blur as Gildor paused his exploration of his lower back to feel for the indentations and stroke them lightly. A warm finger then quested beneath his loincloth to slide teasingly along his cheeks and caress the cleft between them. Haldir could not suppress the silly smile he knew had taken over his face. He should tell Gildor to stop, that he couldn't control himself much longer, but then that lovely finger slid easily inside him and he lost his train of thought completely. His flesh grabbed greedily at the intruding digits--when had there become two?--and a low purr of deep, relaxed ecstasy escaped him. Several nearby guests glanced at him strangely, then turned away, not quite hiding amused grins. Elbereth! There simply HAD to be somewhere they could go . . .   
  
Inspiration struck and Haldir towed an unprotesting Gildor behind the curtain draping a small niche nearby. It was usually used for showing off a large carved urn, but a recent storm had toppled it from its platform and it was currently undergoing repairs. No one else was there--not surprisingly as it was barely large enough to accommodate the two of them--and Haldir immediately claimed Gildor's lips. His companion's mouth was as soft and delicious as always, and his silken hair draped over Haldir's hands as he backed him into the wall, pressing his body against him hungrily. He could feel Gildor's arousal twitch against his leg as the beautiful creature in his arms uttered a low moan into his mouth; Haldir almost came just from that sound alone.   
  
Haldir shivered, both from the sensations flooding through him and from the chill of the evening air that hit his skin when Gildor reached down to pull up his tunic once more, then dropped to his knees to take him in his mouth. The swirling of his tongue, from root to tip, over and over again; the pressure as he swallowed, sucking him greedily deep into his throat; and the soft noises he made combined to take Haldir over the edge, biting down on his lip hard to keep from screaming Gildor's name loud enough to be heard along the Northern Fences.   
  
"Haldir, I . . . oh. Sorry."  
  
Haldir turned dazed eyes on the form that stood awkwardly behind him, as Gildor made a choking noise and clutched at the curtain to draw it closed again, withdrawing himself as he did so from his previous occupation. Haldir felt the loss of his warmth immediately, and turned to glare at his brother, while re-arranging his robes as well as he could. "Don't you have somewhere you need to be, Orophin?," he asked through gritted teeth.  
  
Gildor was sitting on the floor, convulsed with laughter. "I think we severely shocked a few people," he said, when he could speak.  
  
Orophin just continued to stand there, and Haldir, who usually loved his brothers dearly, seriously considered choking him. "What. Do. You. Want?"  
  
"I, er, was hoping you could help me. I haven't been able to get Elrohir alone all evening and . . . "  
  
"Get. Out."   
  
"But, if you could just . . . "  
  
"Out!" Orophin took one look at his brother's purple countenance, and fled, mercifully letting the curtain fall closed behind him. Haldir looked down on Gildor, who was laughing so hard that tears were coursing down his face. He smiled as he ran a hand over his lover's shining head. "Now, where were we?"  
  
TBC  
  
A/N: The title is from a quote--Revenge is a kind of wild justice--by Francis Bacon. 


	2. Chapter Two

Title: Wild Justice 2/? (until I get bored)  
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer2000@yahoo.com  
Rating: R  
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline and my precious, evil mind.   
Feedback: Please!  
Warnings: BDSM. Just FYI, flaming me to tell me what a sick, perverted so and so I am is a waste of time. I already know all that.   
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc (and yes, I know, it is getting entirely out of hand.) Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused and to miss a lot of inside jokes.   
Elrohir watched the elaborate preparations being made in the small glade with considerable interest. He had seen Erestor leaving the royal talan that morning, looking quite furtive, and decided to follow him. He had little else to do. Glorfindel was stuck in political meetings all day as he had been since their arrival in Lorien, although he gave only vague answers to queries as to what was going on. Frustration and worry over the fact that Thranduil was also in these meetings had been enough to make Elrohir very edgy. Discovering whatever Erestor was up to, then, would provide a welcome diversion.   
  
Elrohir followed his old tutor to a glade quite distant from the city, and became steadily more mystified by his elaborate efforts to avoid being seen. Erestor was dressed unusually in a plain, grey-green ensemble that blended in perfectly with the deeper foliage; whenever he stood still for a moment, Elrohir had great difficulty seeing him. He almost lost him twice, and had to close the distance between them or he would certainly have done so. It was rather amusing to be tailing Erestor, who had been one of his teachers in the art of concealment and stealth. Strangely, Elrohir had never before wondered why Erestor had taught those lessons, rather than Glorfindel who had instructed him in most of the other arts of war. Now, however, as he found himself having to use all his talents plus a good bit of luck to follow the dark shadow through the forest, it made sense. It also caused him to wonder what, exactly, Erestor had done in the days of the First Alliance. Now that he thought about it, he could not recall a single story having to do with Erestor's role, yet he was certainly old enough to have participated. And, as Elrond had not founded Imladris until the war was well along, he couldn't very well have been his housekeeper then!  
  
Erestor finally made his way to a small glade. Elrohir, skulking behind a tree, peered out onto a strange scene. About twenty elves, Noldor by the look of them, were milling about the open space. Elrohir only recognised two of them, those supercilious blonds Elros and Camthalion, who were standing over to one side, arms crossed, surveying the others with their usual icy expressions. But they looked up as Erestor approached and, to Elrohir's surprise, broke into twin smiles of welcome. Elrohir could not remember ever seeing those two evidence any emotion, much less a friendly one. He found it a little creepy and unconsciously drew back a bit further into the shadows.   
  
After a few moments' conversation that Elrohir was too far away to hear, Erestor turned to face the throng of elves and clapped his hands imperiously. "All right," he said, raising his voice and drawing something out of the wide sleeve of his tunic. "Over here, gather round everyone." He surveyed the elves who arranged themselves into two lines in almost military formation before him, "Let us be perfectly clear. I am here as a favour to the Lady Galadriel who expressed an interest recently to Lord Elrond about having some of her servants trained in certain matters. What I am going to teach you has already been learned, in part, by two of your number," and he indicated Camthalion and Elros with a flourish of his riding crop. Elrohir paused to wonder what he was doing with a crop with no horse in evidence, but Erestor was continuing on and he concentrated on trying not to miss anything.  
  
"The skills I am about to teach you may shortly be needed in an important mission. However, we have much work to do, as you are all presently the strictest of novices," and here he punctuated his words by thwapping his crop on the thigh of a nearby Noldor. The proud elf said nothing, but shot him a glare from angry blue eyes. Camthalion and Elros seemed to find something amusing, for they exchanged arch looks behind Erestor's back. Erestor also smiled, a little strangely Elrohir thought, and ran his hand gently along the elf's sleek head. "You don't like it when I do that?," he inquired softly, his tone almost too low for Elrohir to hear. He chuckled, then suddenly grabbed a handful of blond hair and jerked the elf's head toward him while forcing him to his knees. "I think we've just found our first volunteer." He released him to allow Elros and Camthalion to each grab an arm and tow the struggling elf off into the woods. Erestor watched them for a moment before turning back to the assembled elves. "Lesson one--you do what you are told, how you are told and when you are told. There is only one master here, and that is me."  
  
The elves looked at each other but there were no arguments. "Good." Erestor rocked back on his heels, apparently pleased. "Then strip."  
  
"Er, sir?" One of the Noldor spoke up, looking a bit confused. Erestor smiled more broadly and walked slowly over to him.  
  
"You have a question?"  
  
The elf looked a little unsure, but persisted nonetheless. "Yes, sir. Er, we were told that we are here to be trained in interrogation techniques."  
  
"Yes, that is one of my specialties."  
  
"Well, in that case, why do you want us to . . . disrobe?"  
  
Erestor glanced up as Camthalion reappeared at the edge of the forest. "We have volunteer number two, Cam," he commented briefly, and the elf in front of him looked about fearfully as Camthalion moved quickly towards him.  
  
"Any other questions?," Erestor asked the assembled elves. They looked at each other for a second, then, as their fellow elf was dragged protesting into the undergrowth, quickly began stripping off their clothing. Erestor smiled at them and caressed his crop with a loving motion. "I do so love my work," Elrohir heard him mutter.   
  
* * *  
  
Celeborn knew, of course, that Elrond would try something, but he had expected it and made certain preparations, so the thought did not initially concern him. His first clue that something more ominous than he'd anticipated was possibly occurring was the silence. He began to worry when days passed and he heard nothing from Imladris, as, by now, Elrond must have discovered his little deception. Celeborn had been extremely pleased to hear that Deya and her band of gypsies were in the area of the Last Homely House, as their magic combined with his own had virtually insured Elrond's subjugation. Fortunately, she happened to owe him a favour. Of course, being Deya, she had turned the tables on him rather neatly, practically insuring that Elrond would eventually discern what had happened by dressing the last dancers almost identically to the two of them. Celeborn sighed. It was so hard to get good help these days.  
  
In any case, it was foolish of Elrond to believe that Celeborn would ever drop his guard where he was concerned; his son-in-law could plot all he wanted, but he would never have the opportunity to put any of his plans into action. It would be a relief, however, whenever Elrond got around to trying something, as this eerie silence was beginning to grate on Celeborn's nerves. He hoped Elrond wouldn't do anything too extreme and cause him to have to retaliate. Now that it was all in the past, he almost felt as if he owed Imladris' master a favour--he'd felt more alive in the past few weeks than he had in centuries, and still had the pleasure of dealing with Galadriel to anticipate. Despite everything, that little trip to Imladris had been an excellent notion.   
  
The second hint he had that things might be becoming complicated was Galadriel's decision to make another quick trip to Imladris, ostensibly to visit Arwen. As his lovely granddaughter had just returned home after an extended stay in Lorien, Celeborn found this extremely difficult to believe, not to mention that his wife had not bothered to even try to make her excuse convincing. There was something in her clear blue eyes that worried him. If Galadriel was plotting with Elrond, this whole situation might become considerably less amusing very quickly. There was no way for Celeborn to prevent her journey, however, nor could he follow her as someone had to remain to continue the negotiations with Thranduil. It was going to be difficult enough to explain his wife's sudden absence; obviously both of them could not just disappear.  
  
Celeborn poured himself some more wine and scowled at the pretty green glass bottle that held it. A Mirkwood vintage. The opaque glass rather reminded him of Thranduil's clever green eyes, and he absentmindedly rubbed the bridge of his nose. Thranduil was yet another problem. The king rarely left his realm, and never without good reason. Celeborn had no idea what he was doing here, taking up endless hours in roundabout discussions that, when examined later, were shown to be completely meaningless. Elbereth, but the elf could talk! They had spent almost four hours in consultation the day before, and he still, for the life of him, could not recall a single point of interest. There had certainly been no explanation for the king's visit.   
  
Thranduil wanted something, of course, that was sure, but just what it was Celeborn had no idea. Whatever it might be, though, he apparently had no doubts that he would obtain it. He positively dripped power, and his easy confidence in his own authority vastly annoyed the Lord of Lorien. Thranduil had moved into the royal talan and made himself and his huge entourage as comfortable as if he owned the place, monopolizing the servants who practically fell over themselves to wait on his every need. Celeborn had had to fetch his own wine as all the available help were busy in the king's quarters. He should have known that he couldn't expect to take a few weeks off for a much-deserved break without having to return to a mess, but this was more than he had planned. He sighed and finished his wine. Why did he have a feeling that this was going to be a very long week?  
  
* * *  
  
Elrohir was feeling a little dizzy. It was an extraordinary experience to see an old friend and mentor, who you had long believed you knew thoroughly, suddenly transformed into a very different person. The martinet in the glade looked like Erestor, but the resemblance ended there. The dandified little housekeeper who had fed Elrohir treats and indulgently failed to report any of his childhood capers to Elrond, was completely gone. In his place was a tyrant and sadist of unbelievable proportions. Elrohir could hardly believe what he was seeing as the day wore on. And he had thought a few of Erestor's suggestion to him about ways of pleasuring Glorfindel were over the top! He now realised that his old tutor had merely been playing with him. He wasn't playing now--or, if he was, Elrohir REALLY didn't want to be there when he decided to get serious.  
  
For hours, the twenty nude Noldor were put through tortures Elrohir doubted if he would ever have thought up, no matter how many ages he might live. Erestor had early on declared that, before they could interrogate anyone properly, they had to understand the uses of both pain and pleasure, and the best tutor for that was experience. Elrohir wasn't sure about the pleasure part, but the pain was undoubted. He would probably never be able to excise from his brain the image of Erestor, in the dispassionate tone he had always used in the schoolroom, giving an extended lecture of the basics of torture with various "volunteers" as visual aides.   
  
The first two elves actually ended up better off than some of the others. They reappeared as Erestor was holding forth on the merits and disadvantages of using a cat of nine tails over a cane or crop. Unfurling one of the former, he walked casually over to where the two elves had been stripped and tied in different ways. The first was shackled hand and foot and suspended from a thick, overhanging tree limb. Metal bars had been placed between his cuffs to insure that his limbs were spread quite far apart. The other had been affixed to a strange contraption that looked like a large wheel.   
  
"The cane," Erestor lectured, "is usually considered more painful than the crop but considerably less than this," and he fondled the heavy braided leather weapon in his hand with affection. "Usually, it is best to begin subtly and let the individual rest in between sessions, to give them time to think about what might be coming next. Start with the crop or the cane," he advised, "and move on from there as needed." He nodded at Camthalion who proceeded to give the first trussed elf a number of sharp whacks across the buttocks with the long, thin reed in his hand. Elros followed this by applying a riding crop to the thighs and buttocks of the other elf. Erestor had them stop after eight or ten strokes and called the observers over to examine the differences between the marks. Spinning the elf on the wheel upside down, he brought his bright pink posterior to eye level and nodded approval at Elros. "Nicely done, but then, you always were a quick learner."  
  
After a discussion on the merits of the cat, as Erestor fondly called it, he looked about as if searching for a volunteer on whom to demonstrate, but the assembled elves all seemed to suddenly find the grass extremely interesting and none met his eyes. He sighed, "perhaps we'll leave this for another day, when you've advanced a bit further." He looked rather disappointed, Elrohir thought in amazement. Had he actually expected anyone to volunteer?  
  
Their meditation on the local flora did not save several elves from being brought forward to demonstrate the proper use of nipple clamps, of which Erestor seemed to have an astounding collection, complete with weights of differing sizes. "It is truly amazing," he was saying, as he attached a particularly heavy specimen to the clamp biting into the breast of one large elf, "how much pain one of these tiny things, if properly applied, can inflict." The elf, who had steadfastly refused to show any emotion up to this point, winced slightly as Erestor adjusted the device. "Such clamps can also be applied to the genitals," he commented casually, his hand sliding down the front of the hapless elf, whose face had taken on a warm pink flush by the time Erestor began to stroke a thumb over one soft, furred ball. "Similar weights may be attached to either the penis or testicles, varying in size depending on the amount of . . .incentive . . . you wish to apply," he continued. This little piece of information caused the elf on display to lose his recently acquired colour and begin to look seriously worried. Erestor smiled into his suddenly huge blue eyes with tolerant amusement. "But that's also a lesson for another day," he murmured before releasing the slightly shaking elf, whose eyes glistened with tears of profound relief.   
  
And so it went, hour after hour, as such things as methods of using ice and hot wax, various types of gags, and whether blindfolds or hoods were best in particular situations were discussed with no more concern than if Erestor was conversing on the weather. He finally released the sore, aching and extremely subdued Noldor just after lunch, sending them off with the ominous pronouncement, "We'll move on to intermediate lessons tomorrow!"   
  
Elrohir sat on the ground, partly to make himself smaller so as not to be noticed by the departing Noldor, but also because his head was frankly spinning. What a completely bizarre way to spend a morning. Glorfindel was never going to believe this. The fresh, green smell of the woods was comforting, and he thought that perhaps, in an hour or two, he might be able to return to the talan unaided. Then, out of nowhere, Erestor's animated face appeared in front of him, black eyes glittering wickedly. "Lunch, young one? Or would you like to stay and play with the boys? I think Elros and Cam are going to remain awhile." Elrohir suddenly found strength flowing back into him, and he scrambled to quickly follow Erestor, glancing back over his shoulder to see Cam spinning the wheel with a delighted expression on his face.   
  
TBC 


	3. Chapter Three

Title: Wild Justice 3/?   
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer2000@yahoo.com  
Rating: R  
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline and my precious, evil mind.   
Feedback: Please!  
Warnings: BDSM.   
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused.   
He had been having a wonderful dream. He was in a place of light and beauty, laughter and song, with plenty of food and a blissful absence of pain. He did not know where this place was, or who the shadowy figures who populated it might be, but that did not matter. He did not even know his own face anymore. He had once spent as much time as he dared, when the overseers momentarily left him alone, staring into the dark pools in the center of this endless cavern of stone. The torch-light had allowed him to just make out his haggard features in the murky water, but what he had seen was no more familiar to him than the face of a stranger.   
  
He vaguely thought that once, long ago, his hair had been dark and silky, not the wispy white strands that now framed his face; and perhaps he had not always looked so weak, almost translucent, as if part of his body had faded along with his memory. It had been impossible to tell in his poor mirror what colour his eyes were, but he rather thought that perhaps they had been blue . . . It did not matter anyway, and these days, he no longer even bothered to look. Nothing was of importance except continuing the dream for as long as possible. To awake was to return to pain, darkness and despair.   
  
He thought, in some part of his mind that was still able to function, that the dream world he saw had once been real. In another place and time, he had known happiness, almost a foreign concept to him now, and health, instead of this constant weariness and unrelieved pain. Once he had stood proud, not constantly bent with aches some part of his mind insisted he should not have. Then others had listened to his words with respect, instead of beating him if he even dared to raise his eyes from the ground. Yet, whenever he tried to focus on those memories, or to see his dreams more clearly, waves of pain flooded through him and awareness of anything was soon blotted out. It was still important to him to see the face of the one who always seemed to be by his side, but never quite within vision range--a presence that, although hidden, felt familiar. Yet he never could, for even trying to focus on that one brought pain quicker and more sharply than anything else.   
  
He had learned through the seemingly endless years to remain still, as the beautiful dream people danced in front of his vision and charming music played somewhere out of sight. That way, occasionally, something new would edge its way into his vision, and he could add another tiny fragment to the largely blank canvass of his mind. He did this more for lack of anything better to do, rather than a burning curiosity to know who he was, what his name had been and what had happened to him. Those questions had once fired his mind, but the centuries, the almost unceasing work and the regular torture inflicted by his captors had largely convinced him that it was irrelevant. He would die here, he knew that now, in the dark and the damp, and never again see the light of the stars.   
  
* * *  
  
Elwyyda blinked as a sudden flood of light hit her eyes when the hood was removed. She immediately turned on her captor and bit him as hard as she could. She'd have rather taken an axe to him, but her hands had been securely bound behind her and anyway, she had not had anything that remotely resembled a weapon in so long that she doubted she would know what to do with one. The light surprised her, though, for the mountain was always dark, for the goblins hated the day. Then, as large hands slipped a gag into her mouth, she had a chance to look about and see that, wherever this strange place was, it was assuredly not the mountain.   
  
She looked up to see shapes slowly coalesce around her as her eyes adjusted. The one immediately in front of her was nursing a wounded hand, and looking at her in high annoyance. She would have lunged for him again, except that, first, strong hands were now holding her firmly around both bound arms, and, second, her brain finally registered the fact that she was not, in fact, looking at an orc. Instead, the creature who glared at her as he wrapped his hand in a handkerchief was . . .   
  
"Zirak!," she tried to grab him, but could only struggle uselessly against her captors. But no, wait. It could not be he. Zirak was much thinner and his hair, though light, did not have the same sheen; it looked like dirty cotton, but had once had a silver tint to it. That was why she had given him his name, meaning silver in the tongue of her people. This one's hair was like spun gold, and he wore a sapphire tunic of a fine weave, not dirty rags. But they had the same eyes, a bright, true blue, and a light seemed to radiate from both of them. This one, then, must be another like Zirak. She had occasionally seen them in the mines, but only from a distance. Reassured that, at least, it was not the goblins who had found her, she stilled and waited.  
  
"A dwarf! I might have known. Why didn't the guards gag her?," the one that was not Zirak asked, his voice as fair as the words were harsh.   
  
Another of the shining ones answered, "They gave her drugged wine to render her unconscious. One underfed dwarvish female is hardly a threat in any case. Besides, she is here to talk and a gag might make that somewhat difficult. Please, Haldir, stand aside and let Gildor try. He has been known to have success in these cases." The voice came from over her shoulder, so she could not see who spoke, but another of the bright ones approached and caught her attention. He was dark of hair and eyes, but there was a gentleness about him that reminded her even more of Zirak than the other.   
  
He smiled down at her, and his eyes were kind. "If I remove the gag, will you speak with us a time? We will not hurt you."   
  
Elwyyda nodded cautiously, and the cloth was removed from her mouth. The dark one gestured and the hands holding her arms were withdrawn. He removed the strange, grey rope, freeing her from her bonds, but she was not deceived. The golden haired one behind him was armed, with a long, well made knife at his belt, and he looked at her with suspicion. She glanced about and saw four other shining ones, one near each of the exits to the large, round room. Getting out of here was not going to be easy, but she was determined to try. She was NOT going back there; she would gladly die first.   
  
"I am called Gildor," the dark one, who had seated himself on the floor before her, said as easily as if they had known each other all their lives. It was strange, Elwyyda thought, but she almost felt as if they had. This one reminded her of Zirak so much that it was necessary to remind herself that it was not, could not, be he. But, she thought, examining the one before her carefully, perhaps this was what he would have looked like, had not the goblins so delighted in torturing him. "Why did you call me . . . Zirak, was it?"   
  
Elwyyda would have preferred to say nothing, but she had so long been conditioned to answer or suffer greatly for it, that her response was almost automatic. "You are like him. You look like him." Her voice sounded rough, even to own her ears, compared with the lilting quality of this Gildor's, but he did not seem to notice. The golden one winced, however, as if the sounds hurt his delicate ears. She smiled grimly; the goblins made noises that would cause him considerably more pain than her attempts at speech. She felt like telling him that dwarvish voices, too, could be fair, but not when they had spent most of their lives either unused or screaming in agony. Still, what was the use? Elwyyda was not accustomed to wasting effort--better to hoard your strength for survival.  
  
"How do I look like him?" The question seemed an innocent one, and Gildor's eyes were large and clear, not narrowed in hate as the orcs' usually were.   
  
Elwyyda considered for a moment, then reached out a tentative hand to touch his arm where it glowed beyond the short sleeve of his tunic. "You shine," she whispered, astonished at the feel of his skin. She had never known anything like it. Even Zirak's was not so fine. The golden one stepped forward, a warning on his lips, but Gildor glanced at him and he did not interfere.   
  
"And Zirak shone?" Gildor asked, more urgency in his tone, but he did not draw back from her touch. She just nodded, feeling suddenly shy. Her clothes were torn and stained, and had originally been cast offs from another prisoner who had not survived. Aule knew how long it had been since they were actually clean. She had not seen her reflection in so long that she had no idea what she looked like, but knew her appearance must be terribly rough in comparison to the beautiful creature in front of her. Even Zirak was not so fair, she thought in amazement. This one's voice was almost like music when he asked her, "So Zirak is not a dwarf, then?"  
  
Elwyyda shook her head. She suddenly longed for a bath, to be clean and dressed in fine clothes like Gildor. She glanced down at her hands, with their scars and calluses and the collective dirt of years of harsh work in the mines, and wished that they could be clean and soft like his. But even then, she thought sadly, they would still be stubby and clumsy, while his hands were almost works of art . . .   
  
The golden one said something in a language she did not know. At least Elydda thought it must be a language, for Gildor replied in similar sounds. But it was not anything like Khuzdul or Westron. She contented herself with examining Gildor more closely, and found it beautiful how the sunlight coming through the high windows of the room gilded his dark lashes. Finally, he turned back to her. "Can you describe him for me?" When she hesitated, Gildor scrambled to his feet. "Is he my height?"   
  
Elwyyda walked slowly around him, trying to remember. For some reason, she wanted to answer this one well. "Maybe. But you are straight."  
  
"And he is not? He does not stand straight?"  
  
She shook her head, then hunched over slightly. "Like this," and she walked with the bent, dragging stumble that was all she had ever seen Zirak use. His foot had been injured once, long before she came, and the mine passages, although plenty high for the orcs who never walked fully erect, caused him constantly to have to bend over. She supposed he had become used to it.   
  
Gildor nodded thoughtfully. "And what else? Is he dark like me or," and he indicated the golden one, "fair like Haldir? Oh, forgive me, this is my partner, Haldir of Lorien." The other one and Elwyyda both looked at Gildor as though he was mad, to introduce her as if she was some kind of equal, but neither commented.   
  
After a moment, Elwyyda shook her head slightly and answered his question. "No, not like you or him," she shot a look of irritation at Haldir, who was scowling at her again. "Zirak is . . . ", she sighed and looked about. It was hard to speak, to remember the words. There had been few needed in the mines, and over the years, one just forgot them.  
  
"Like this?" Gildor summoned another of the shining ones, this time with black hair and eyes that gleamed. "This is Lord Erestor," he added, smiling as he introduced them. Elwyyda wanted to ask him to stop doing that, as it was . . . inappropriate somehow. She was a mine slave, and an escaped one at that. Introducing her to people who wore fine clothing and smelled of spices and flowers was . . . well, it was almost obscene. She could not imagine what she was even doing here, but Gildor's warm brown eyes were regarding her expectantly, so she shook her head. He did not seem upset, but simply called over another elf.   
  
Elwyyda noticed that the door nearest her, by which the black haired one had been standing, was now unguarded, but she did not try to run towards it. She did not know what lay beyond it, and did not want to anger these people. She had yet to see an orc, but they could be waiting outside to take her back if she displeased the bright ones. She had escaped by showing infinite patience, always watching for her chance. She could do so again. In the meantime, why not tell them? What more harm could be done to Zirak by them or anyone else? In the mines, death was sometimes preferable to life, when the pain became too great. She had long thought that was the case for him, but he had been her friend and she had refrained from saying so. When he wished to die, he would.  
  
"Like those." She pointed at the robes worn by this latest addition to their little group. He was true zirak--hair and eyes and clothes--so bright that he almost blinded her. "Like that one."  
  
"Silver? Oh, but of course--Zirak, what else?"   
  
Elwyyda watched as the bright ones spoke together in their pretty language. It was strange, like singing instead of speech . . . She swayed slightly on her feet, but did not fall. Showing weakness in the mines would get you killed. Her mother had died because she fell over in her exhaustion, and the orcs had simply kicked her off into a chasm. Elwyyda had been only a child then, but she remembered. Through the years, she had learned to sleep standing up if need be, but she wished her fatigue would leave her now. She did not want to sleep only to wake up and find that she was back in the mines. She had slept very little since her escape, for that reason.  
  
"You are fatigued." Gildor put a hand on her shoulder, but his touch was gentle. "Come, I will show you where you can rest."  
  
"And . . . ," she was too tired to think of the word, although it was a simple one.   
  
Gildor did not seem to notice. "And eat and wash and everything you want. Come with me," and he smiled at her again. Elwydda thought suddenly that she would follow this one anywhere if he continued to look at her like that.  
  
* * *  
  
Haldir finally managed to escape from the-meeting-that-would-not-end and immediately headed for Elladan's rooms. He had one more duty to perform that day before he could, finally, manage some time with his lover, and he wanted to get it over with as soon as possible. He had been suffering from steadily mounting frustration for several days and it had finally become extreme. It seemed as if the world was conspiring to keep him away from Gildor. Every time they tried to be alone, someone or something interrupted--often his lust-crazed brother, who was going to get himself killed if he didn't find another object of affection.   
  
Glorfindel hadn't seemed to notice the situation yet, probably because he was frequently stuck in meetings, but it was only a matter of time. And, of course, he might not have to do anything in the first place, as Elrohir was well on the way to finishing off Orophin all by himself. In the last two days, Orophin had been tripped, stepped on and almost tipped off the edge of a talan, and those were just the incidents Haldir knew about. The Valar alone knew what was happening besides. At this rate his stubborn brother would need to return to the Northern Fences for a holiday--killing a few orcs would be positively restful compared to his treatment in the city lately.  
  
Haldir paused in the corridor, head cocked, listening. High-pitched feminine giggles echoed dimly from beyond Elladan's closed door. Of course. He should have known. Elladan had been here less than a day, much of which had been spent greeting his grandparents, and yet here he was, already . . . occupied. Haldir should have nabbed him as soon as he showed up at the borders. He hated to be interrupted himself, especially as it had been happening all too frequently of late, and therefore decided to return later, hoping to catch Elladan free for a moment or two. They really had to discuss their respective brothers before something truly unfortunate happened.   
  
He was just turning away as the door opened and Elladan appeared, tunic awry and a satisfied grin on his face, supported on each side by an elf maid in a similar state of disarray. Haldir's eyes narrowed as he recognized Celebrethil and Ithilessar both of whom he had favoured with his attentions in the past. Of course, he had a permanent lover now, but still . . . It was positively indecent the way they were hanging all over Elladan, not that the elf seemed to mind in the slightest. It quickly became obvious that none of them was in any condition to have a serious discussion, although they cheerfully invited Haldir to accompany them to the baths. He declined, watching with half irritation and half amusement as the three headed slowly down the corridor. The maidens did their best to keep Elladan walking a somewhat straight line, but as they had apparently been tippling a bit along with him, the three merely succeeded in lurching in tandem down the hall. They bounced off one last wall before disappearing from sight, still giggling like maniacs.   
  
Oh well, Haldir thought, cheering up. He'd try again after dinner. Perhaps, if he was quick, he could catch Elladan as he left the dining hall, assuming he didn't drown in the baths and managed to sober up enough to attend the meal. In the meantime, maybe he could catch Gildor alone for a few minutes before someone or something intervened. He went off humming happily. His good mood lasted just long enough for him to return to their room; there he discovered his companion busy attempting, of all things, to fix the hair of that ridiculous dwarf Thranduil's spies had dragged in. By the look of things, Gildor was not enjoying the experience, but wore the expression Haldir had learned meant that he intended to stay with something until he finished it. Haldir had often had reason to be very grateful for his persistence; this wasn't, however, one of those times.   
  
Haldir watched Gildor struggle with the creature's severely matted locks for a few minutes before crossing the room and taking the comb away from him. "Go. Sit. I'll do this." If he didn't, any chance of some time alone would be lost. He was glad to see that Gildor had persuaded it to bathe at some point and had dressed it in one of his tunics. Unfortunately it was a new one--the bright red about which he had very fond feelings as the last time they had . . . interacted . . . Gildor had been wearing it. Well, he wouldn't again, Haldir thought in disgust. The bath the creature had taken needed to be repeated--maybe a few dozen times--and what WAS that in its hair? He wrinkled up his nose at the smell that wafted up from the stiff substance beneath his hands and saw Gildor glare at him. What was wrong with the elf today?   
  
Haldir, of course, knew the answer to that, which was why he tried to be as gentle as possible while imposing order on the mess before him. Gildor adopted things--cats with only one leg, birds with broken wings, wounded humans--virtually anything that looked helpless was impossible for him to ignore. Haldir had seen the menagerie of deformed creatures he had collected on his travels and brought back to Imladris, where most of them made serious nuisances of themselves thereafter. He'd persuaded Gildor to leave his collection behind, assuring him that they would be more comfortable in familiar surroundings, so he supposed it shouldn't surprise him that his lover had found a substitute. Haldir rather thought he'd prefer another three-legged cat.   
  
The little dwarf sat stiffly under his hands while he worked. Gildor calmed down when he saw that Haldir intended to take good care of it and stretched out on the divan, smiling at the two of them. Haldir continued his work, but his eyes were on his companion more than they were the dwarf. Gildor looked wonderful. His tunic was wet in front from, Haldir supposed, the sopping hair of the dwarf on which he'd been working, and it outlined a beautifully sculpted chest. He was wearing a faded green ensemble in soft, much washed cotton that hugged every contour. It also, Haldir thought dreamily, brought out the green flecks in his eyes that were often not noticeable. He picked up the pace a little on his work, but tried to avoid pulling its hair in the process, as he preferred to keep Gildor in a good mood. Elbereth! It would be easier just to cut the mess off and let it grow again!  
  
Finally, after what felt like half an age, Haldir managed to work through most of the tangles. Some few remained, but he would have liked to see anyone defeat them. Gildor checked his work and agreed--they would have some cutting to do. "But tomorrow, I think," Haldir said smoothly. "The poor child is tired now. Let her rest. I assume rooms have been assigned?" Gildor agreed that they had, and escorted the thing away, promising to return shortly. Haldir smiled after him, then hurried about, making preparations. They still had an hour or so before dinner, and he did not intend to waste it.   
  
By the time Gildor returned, Haldir had tidied up the room, changed into a sky blue silk robe and reclined gracefully on the divan. He smiled invitingly as Gildor entered, but his lover didn't appear to notice. Instead, he pulled his damp tunic over his head and began to root around in the wardrobe for another, delighting Haldir with the view of a well toned back tapering down to perfect buttocks that were straining against his tight fitting leggings. The day was definitely looking up.  
  
"I think they may be right, Haldir," Gildor commented, giving up on the wardrobe and starting to look through his bags in search of something clean and relatively wrinkle free. "In fact, the situation may be even more grave than we thought. I had a chance to talk to Elwyyda some more and she described seeing several of the "shining ones" as she calls us, at work in the mines. As she was restricted to only one area, there may be even more that she doesn't know about."  
  
Haldir sighed. Gildor did not seem to be in the appropriate mood. "That's impossible. If a large group of elves suddenly went missing, it would certainly be noticed. And I refuse to believe that any elves could be held captive for any length of time by goblins--and as mine slaves at that! They would have found a way free or died trying. No elf would, or could, live like that." Haldir moved over to Gildor, who was now rooting around under the bed. His lover had many good traits, but tidiness was not among them. "Leave it," he murmured. "For what I have in mind, you won't need clothing."  
  
Gildor shot him an amused look, but continued his search. "Dinner is in an hour and I have to look respectable."  
  
"We'll skip it." Haldir decided that he could see Elladan later; the elf probably wouldn't be at the meal anyway, if he remembered his former companions' talents as well as he thought he did.   
  
"We can't skip it. What if they want to ask me about what else Elwyyda said?"  
  
"Then they can come and find us," Haldir murmured, pushing him back onto the bed.   
  
"But . . . this is important, Haldir . . . ," Gildor began, but his complaints tapered off as Haldir let his robe fall to the floor. He wore nothing beneath it, and Gildor swallowed, looking torn. Haldir didn't wait to see if lust or duty would win out, but covered Gildor's body with his own.   
  
"So is this," he replied, turning his attentions full on his charming companion, who squirmed into a more comfortable position on the bed but continued his train of thought.   
  
"But . . . she said that Zirak had been there a very long time. That an old dwarf who had been caught years before told her that Zirak was there when he arrived, so who can say how long ago he was captured? Perhaps so much time has passed that no one remembers."  
  
Haldir nuzzled the base of Gildor's neck, savouring his spicy sent. "Elves do not simply go missing, Gildor. Someone would have gone looking for any that did, and recorded their loss if they could not be found. It simply isn't possible. Besides, what kind of name is that for an elf?"  
  
"But, do we not have to assume she is telling the truth?" Gildor's voice became a little breathless as Haldir began kissing a trail down his chest. "We have to investigate--can you imagine elves, perhaps lost for centuries, forced to work deep underground?" A shudder ran through him at the very thought. Haldir agreed--he personally could think of no greater torment for a lover of the stars and wide-open spaces--but wished Gildor would not worry himself so over something so unlikely.   
  
"Someone could have paid her to say these things," Haldir commented, tugging at the lightweight fabric of Gildor's leggings, slowly revealing the beauty within. "It could be nothing more than an attempt to lure us into a trap. Besides, she is a dwarf. You cannot trust anything they say. She could simply be telling you what she thinks you want to hear." He dipped his head to pleasure Gildor, only to find his previously willing lover sliding out from beneath him to stand at the bedside, regarding him in annoyance.   
  
"You can't really believe that." Gildor had no idea of the sight he made, Haldir thought dizzily, with his hands on his hips, his leggings around his ankles, and his skin slightly flushed. Haldir had never seen anything so beautiful, or anything he wanted more. He reached for him, but Gildor attempted to move back, apparently intent on finishing their discussion. Thankfully his leggings tripped him up and Haldir quickly followed him to the floor.   
  
"I'll believe anything you like, lirimaer, but I would prefer to discuss it another time." Capturing Gildor's lips in an insistent kiss, he insured that further debate was impossible. He would never get tired of this, he thought, sighing into his lover's mouth, while sliding a hand down his silky back to caress his perfect cheeks. The oil was on the bedside table, easily within reach, and Haldir smiled as his fingers closed around it. Finally!   
  
Suddenly, Haldir couldn't stand it any more and flipped Gildor over on the soft rug beneath them. "I need you now, melethryn," he growled, finding with ease his companion's small entrance and gently pressing an oil-slicked finger within it. As always, Gildor was warm and velvet soft inside. As Haldir pushed a little deeper, his lover's flesh clutched tightly around his fingers. Perfect! It was all Haldir could do not to hurry things any further. He had sworn to himself never to risk hurting Gildor, however, and he kept his promise, carefully preparing him until he could easily accept three fingers. Oh, Haldir thought as he finally positioned himself between his lover's thighs, how very much he needed this . . .   
  
"Haldir . . .," Gildor was breathing heavily, "I think that was a knock at the door."  
  
"No, it wasn't." Haldir had heard, but was determined to ignore it. If it was Orophin, he didn't think even brotherly affection would save him. The knock came again, louder this time, and Haldir could have cried with frustration. NO! Not again! "Ignore it," he told Gildor desperately, but his lover was already sliding from beneath him.   
  
"Haldir, it could be from the council--Lord Celeborn or King Thranduil may wish to see us." Before he could stop him, Gildor had flung on Haldir's discarded robe and opened the door, using his body to shield his lover from view. Erestor's amused black eyes nonetheless peered around Gildor's broad shoulder to twinkle at Haldir, who was lying wretched and unfulfilled on the floor. Haldir was too miserable to care. He must have offended some deity at some point, and the Valar were amusing themselves tormenting him. It was the only explanation.  
  
"So sorry to, er, interrupt," Erestor commented, grinning like the fiend he was. "But your presence is requested in Lord Celeborn's chambers. We'll be dining informally tonight." His eyes ran over Haldir's form appreciatively. "Not quite THAT informally, however . . . more's the pity."  
  
"I don't suppose," Haldir commented wearily, "that you could stall them for, say, fifteen minutes?"  
  
Erestor laughed. "My dear Haldir, is that all you need?" He clucked his tongue. "How very disappointing." Haldir glared at him, but it did not seem to have much of an effect. "In any case, I am afraid not. Lord Celeborn was most insistent that I fetch you right away. Cheer up, young one--there will be time for play later."   
  
Haldir did not bother to comment as he painfully hauled himself to his feet, going to look for his loosest clothes. After dinner, he promised himself, as he tossed Gildor one of his own robes and met his partner's sympathetic gaze. Come what may--up to and including a massive orc invasion--he was going to take Gildor to bed and keep him there, possibly for a week.  
TBC 


	4. Chapter Four

Title: Wild Justice 4/?   
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer2000@yahoo.com  
Rating: R  
Pring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline and my precious, evil mind.   
Feedback: Please!  
Warnings: BDSM.   
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused.   
* * *  
  
Glorfindel had long suspected some ulterior motive behind Thranduil's visit to Lorien. That had not been a difficult to surmise, as anything else would have been out of character. He had been prepared, however, to accept the king's story, especially with the dwarf's evidence, at face value, as even the ruler of Mirkwood could not fail to be moved by such a tale. Thranduil's odd reluctance to come to the point in recent discussions had also been explained, as he was waiting to see if his spies could locate the dwarf again, having lost her after hearing only part of her story. Glorfindel agreed that Thranduil's reputation would have almost insured disbelief had he not produced some type of proof; it was difficult enough to accept as it was.   
  
His suspicions had all been raised again, however, by the king's apparently casual advice that Elrond be brought from Imladris to assist with the medical side of things, should anyone actually be recovered. Celeborn had looked impassive, but then, he usually did. The length of time he took to answer, however, made it clear that he, too, had his doubts. Thranduil and Elrond were no longer actually enemies, as the last five hundred years had seen a gradual lessening of tensions between the two kingdoms following his long ago diplomatic assignment. But no one could call them exactly friendly. Elladan had visited Thranduil's court on his coming of age and had apparently made a good impression, but for Thranduil to actually request Elrond's help in   
anything . . . well, it was odd. Celeborn at length agreed, however, having   
no good reason to refuse, and the meal came to an end shortly thereafter. Glorfindel lingered as the others filed out, intent on finding out what nefarious plans Thranduil might have in mind for Elrond.  
  
The king looked well, he thought, attired unusually for him in blue, all velvet and sapphires and delicately wrought mithril adornments. Glorfindel had marveled at the richness of Thranduil's attire since he arrived, as the king had dressed much more plainly in his own land, but he seemed to be making extreme efforts to look enticing in Lorien. Of course, Glorfindel reflected, he sometimes forgot how intimidating the Golden Wood could be to those not intimately familiar with it. Not that he seriously thought Thranduil was unsettled by much of anything, but perhaps the adornments were a way of evening the score a bit; in effect, he was saying that Mirkwood may not be as attractive as Lorien, but it, too, has points of beauty. One of which was currently regarding Glorfindel with a little smile on his face.  
  
Thranduil tipped the bottle in his hand slightly in Glorfindel's direction, but he declined. It was always best to be clear headed when dealing with the king. It was also necessary to employ a little deviousness. "I congratulate your people on locating the dwarf. Her evidence will be most useful in finding this mine."  
  
"They should never have lost her in the first place," Thranduil replied, leaning against the mantel and regarding Glorfindel through half closed eyes. They had eaten in Celeborn's library. It was thought best to discuss these events in private, as their nature was sure to inflame the passions of the entire elvish community should they become generally known. Besides, nothing was as yet proven. Thranduil had explained that the humans had captured a dwarf who was raiding their supplies and those of his people who lived near the borders of Mirkwood. They had turned her over to his agents at his request, and recounted the tale she had told her gaolers of a mine run by goblins and orcs where captured peoples of all races, including some elves, laboured unceasingly. His spies had thereafter lost the little creature, but at length caught her again after drugging a wineskin that they left unattended near a house she had recently raided. They had swiftly brought her to Lorien so that the king's story might be substantiated.   
  
Glorfindel had been pleased with the setting for their discussion, as the library was one of his favourite places in all of Lorien, containing written treasures from ages past as well as some of the most intricate wood carvings he had ever seen. It was impossible to tell where, exactly, the walls of the talan began and the trunk of the huge mallyrn ended, as all were engraved with vines, flowers and scenes from Lorien's history. The huge fireplace was virtually the only thing in the room that was not made of some type of wood. The library was cavernous, as Celeborn had amassed quite a collection, but it seemed suddenly much smaller than before, despite the fact that only he and Thranduil remained. The king looked casual, leaning against the stones as he drank his wine, the firelight glimmering off the jewels at his neck and those embroidered into the fabric of his robe and turning his hair to purest silver.   
  
Glorfindel did not like the way Thranduil's eyes roved over him, and wondered if anyone had explained about he and Elrohir. He supposed he should have mentioned it, but it had been Celeborn who introduced his grandson to the king, and as he made no mention of the relationship, it would have been awkward for Glorfindel to do so. It also seemed difficult to bring it up now, as it was more than a bit of a non-sequiteur, and Thranduil had yet to make any type of advance. Still, Glorfindel felt the weight of that gaze on him, and shifted slightly. Only Thranduil could manage to make him feel young and somewhat uncertain. He noticed that the king's smile had grown somewhat bigger, and wondered what the price for the information he wanted on Thranduil's plans was likely to be.   
  
* * *  
  
Elrohir had just finished a very unsatisfactory meal, practically alone as, although people had surrounded him on all sides in his grandfather's banqueting hall, he had known practically none of them. Celeborn, Erestor, Thranduil and Glorfindel were all dining together, apparently on "state business" which did not require his input. Even Gildor and that annoying Haldir had gone missing, although Orophin, as usual, had been at his side the whole meal. Elrohir had almost given up trying to get rid of him, as nothing seemed to work. He had settled for simply ignoring him.  
  
Elrohir finished eating early as, although the food was excellent, his appetite was poor, and he escaped from the hall as soon as he could. He was intent on finding Glorfindel even if it meant interrupting an important diplomatic discussion. He had hardly seen his lover in days, which had certainly not been his intent on bringing him along. Besides, he thought in high irritation, he had been trained in diplomacy, too, and by Elrond of Imladris at that. So why shouldn't he be there? He wasn't some elfling who could not be trusted to keep quiet about a sensitive matter. The more he thought about it, the more incensed he became that he had been so casually excluded. He was as much his father's representative at Lorien as Glorfindel, even if he was actually less familiar with it. But how was he supposed to become knowledgeable if no one ever allowed him to observe?   
  
By the time he made his way to his grandfather's library, he was quite distressed and his colour was up. Just outside the door was a sight calculated to send his blood pressure even higher. Orophin, propped against the door, arms crossed over his broad chest, smiled gently at him. "I wouldn't do that if I were you."   
  
"Do what?" Elrohir couldn't imagine how the annoying Galadrim had reached the library before him, as he was certain he had left him behind, still eating, in the hall.   
  
"Go into the library. Of course, it is your decision, but don't say I didn't warn you." Elrohir glowered at him, not the least because Orophin's eyes had started to wander over his body as they were prone to do.  
  
"Get out of my way."  
  
Orophin shrugged and moved aside, clumsily knocking into the door as he did so. How this one had ever made it onto the border patrol was a mystery; he had probably slept his way into the position, Elrohir thought in disgust. He slowly cracked open the door to avoid interrupting any discussion that might be going on, as his grandfather's displeasure was not something to be risked unnecessarily. He almost immediately had to put a hand to the wall to keep himself from falling over. Time seemed to stop--he couldn't even feel his heart beating anymore--and he started to grey out. Strong arms pulled him back and quietly shut the door. He was helped along the hall and out into the cool night air, which did absolutely nothing to revive him. He barely registered its presence. "Breath," a voice commanded him, as his head was pushed between his legs. He was going to be sick, he knew it, yet nothing happened as he sat on what felt like an overturned log, and tried not to faint.  
  
After a few minutes, the world began to coalesce around him again and he sat up. He and Orophin--of course, he thought resignedly, who else?--were in a small glade. The great talan could be seen only a little way away, but the surrounding trees gave this area a feeling of privacy. Elrohir vaguely realised that Orophin was talking. " . . . inevitable, really. I mean, everyone knows about their affair--how else do you think the fences were mended between your realms? But I didn't know how to tell you. I wasn't certain that you would even mind. After all, many would be pleased with whatever crumbs someone like Glorfindel was willing to allow them."  
  
"What?" Elrohir still felt disoriented, and could not quite believe what he had just seen. But the image was seared onto his eyes, and even when he shut them, there it was. Thranduil, his beautiful body nude and glowing in the firelight, and Glorfindel, holding him in a tight embrace . . . he WAS going to be ill.  
  
"Relax," Orophin's voice soothed him, as a gentle hand caressed his hair. "I am sorry you had to find out this way, but you would have discovered the truth sooner or later. Isn't it really better to know?"  
  
Elrohir wanted to scream that no, it most certainly wasn't. But hadn't he already known? Hadn't he suspected as much from the first time he saw them together? The sun and the moon, he had thought then, and what was he? Nothing, nothing at all in comparison. He tried to tear away from Orophin's grasp, as he couldn't let someone, especially this arrogant Galadrim, see him lose control completely. But strong arms held him tightly and calming noises were made, and Elrohir suddenly didn't want to leave this warm embrace. Where was he to go, anyway? Back to his cold rooms, or to Glorfindel's, which would be equally empty? He didn't think he could bear that, not when it felt like his heart was being literally torn from his chest.  
  
Orophin was running a light touch down his back, but, for once, it did not feel sensual. Instead, his hands were soothing and sympathetic, and Elrohir found himself leaning into them gratefully. Slowly, the touch became a caress, and the arms around him tightened as Orophin drew him into a kiss. It was soft and gentle at first, and Elrohir was surprised to find himself warming to it, especially when Orophin slipped between his lips and began exploring his mouth. Here was someone who wanted him, who had wanted him since they first met. Elrohir hadn't wanted to admit it, but there was something alluring about Orophin's feline sexuality, and the grace and controlled power of his movements.   
  
Why not, he thought suddenly. Why should he be the only one in a cold, empty bed this night--it was obvious that Glorfindel would not be. So Elrohir did not protest when Orophin began to slowly slide his robes from his shoulders, pausing to explore with his lips the areas revealed. He said nothing when Orophin suddenly stood and divested himself of his own robes, just noticing in a detached kind of way that the moonlight on his skin was attractive, and was so bright that, where it fell through a gap in the treetops, it lit him almost as well as day. His arousal was obvious, as was his languid smile. "Lle naa vanima, Elrohir," he murmured, slowly removing the rest of Elrohir's clothes. "I have waited a long time for this."  
  
* * *  
  
Glorfindel broke away from Thranduil, his heart racing. As usual in the king's presence, he was feeling slightly off kilter. He had not been expecting his companion to suddenly put down his wine and, as if some type of invitation had been offered and accepted, simply let his robes fall to the floor. He should have known never to underestimate Thranduil, but the quickness of the king's actions left him momentarily stunned, and the feel of that satin skin on his brought back some very attractive memories. Thranduil lost no time in capturing his lips, and Glorfindel briefly returned the kiss, his arms going automatically around him to pull him closer. Thranduil tasted of the wine, dark and sweet and burning, and he was good; Glorfindel had forgotten just how good . . . A second later, however, he broke away, remembering that his actions were no longer solely his to decide.   
  
Besides, he didn't want this, he told himself, as he retreated to the far side of the room, trying to put some much needed space between himself and the beautiful creature who pursued him. Thranduil waited until the bank of windows behind him stopped Glorfindel's retreat, then followed. His approach was slow enough that Glorfindel had ample time to admire his perfect body, now clad only in his shimmering jewels, as he came closer. "Why do you run from me, melethron?," Thranduil asked, reaching out to run a hand down Glorfindel's brocaded robe. "Your body disagrees with you, I think," he commented, as his hand located the evidence of that fact.  
  
Glorfindel drew away and turned to look out the window, trying to get himself under control before anything excessively foolish happened. It was in that moment of confusion that he saw them, lit up as if on a stage by Ithil's light, clearly visible from this far above the parting in the trees. He stood, rooted to the spot, hardly breathing as he watched Elrohir, who he had designated as mela en' coiamin, leaning against a fallen log, his head thrown back in seeming rapture as one of the Galadrim took him into his mouth.   
  
Glorfindel felt Thranduil's hand on his back, as the king came to stand behind him. "You see," he murmured, "some elves know what the night is for. Come," he coaxed, his arms going about Glorfindel to pull him close, "let us see if we old ones remember, too, hmm?"  
  
Glorfindel could barely hear him through the rushing in his ears, which sounded as if a violent windstorm had suddenly blown up. His vision seemed to narrow, to the point where all he could see was the two figures in the glade, the one on its hands and knees golden fair next to the dark beauty of his lover. HIS lover, Glorfindel thought savagely. All of his high sounding conversations with Erestor about letting his young companion stretch his wings a bit and gain some experience went out the window as a violent shudder shook him. He shrugged out of Thranduil's hold and left the room, not bothering with the stairs but instead sliding down a support cable to the ground below.  
  
* * *  
  
"The Valar preserve us!" Haldir had taken advantage of Gildor's insistence on checking up on the dwarf to slip back to the library, intent on retrieving the bottle of truly excellent wine he had seen there for his planned evening's entertainment. Almost at the door, he managed to step nimbly out of the way as it crashed open and Glorfindel came barreling out, a look on his face unlike any Haldir had ever seen. It told him as certainly as if someone had screamed it that his brother had about two minutes left to live.  
  
Abandoning caution and good sense, Haldir took off after Glorfindel, managing to arrive in the little glade just in time to see the enraged Elda grab Orophin by the back of the neck and lift him entirely off the ground. His brother, not inconsiderable in height or weight, dangled from Glorfindel's grasp helplessly, a ridiculously dumbfounded expression on his face. Orophin's lack of clothing and obvious arousal told the tale without any need for words, which was just as well as neither he nor Elrohir looked capable of speech at the moment.  
  
"Glorfindel, no!" Two voices rang out, almost simultaneously, and Haldir's head whipped about to see Thranduil and Lord Celeborn stride into the glade behind him. Noting that their command had not even registered on Glorfindel, Haldir moved forward to be ready in case more active interference was needed. Elbereth, but he hoped it wouldn't be, as he saw with dismay the fury that had turned Glorfindel's usually bright blue eyes virtually black.   
  
"Put him down, seneschal, and explain yourself!" Celeborn's tone of voice was close enough to a shout to break through Glorfindel's rage. Orophin was dumped unceremoniously on the ground, where he sat, still apparently in a state of shock, his eyes fixed on the wicked looking knife in his assailant's hand. Haldir hadn't even noticed it, but now his blood ran cold. He gingerly reached out to take it, but almost as if by magic, it was suddenly gone. A second later he noticed the edge of the carved hilt sticking out of the top of one of Glorfindel's boots. Haldir didn't wait for permission, but dragged his dumbstruck brother out of harm's way.  
  
"Perhaps we should discuss this indoors," Thranduil offered mildly, and Celeborn nodded once, tersely.   
  
"All of you, in the library, now!," he stated, before turning and stalking back to the talan. Haldir saw a look pass between his brother and Thranduil then, almost one of warning on the king's part, but had no idea what it meant. Gathering up Orophin's scattered garments, he thrust them into his brother's arms. "Get dressed," he ordered, keeping an eye on Glorfindel.   
  
The fiery light was fading from Glorfindel's eyes, and he looked like someone just awakening from a trance. "Lle wethrine amin," he said softly, but he was not addressing Elrohir as Haldir would have expected. Instead, the words were spoken to Thranduil, who merely sighed.   
  
"For your own good," the king commented, equally strangely from Haldir's perspective. He had the definite feeling that he had missed something, but frankly did not want to know what it was. At the look that passed between the Eldar, however, he shivered. He was profoundly grateful not to be King Thranduil.  
  
The scene that followed in the library wasn't pretty. After a considerable dressing down by Celeborn, Orophin reluctantly admitted that he had been drawn into a plan by the king of Mirkwood to separate the two lovers. Haldir closed his eyes in embarrassed disbelief at Orophin's complete lack of judgment. Sometimes it was difficult to believe that they had the same parents. He was vastly relieved when Celeborn decided to blame the whole affair on Thranduil, but his lord addressed the king in terms that made Haldir sincerely wish to be somewhere else. The least of them was "irresponsible troublemaker," and it went on from there. Thranduil sat quietly throughout the tirade, neither attempting to comment nor visibly reacting. Even his skin tone stayed the same, except for a slight flush that could be blamed on the wine he had poured himself. It was, Haldir noted regretfully, the bottle he had planned to nab for his and Gildor's enjoyment. When Celeborn finally wound down, Thranduil still seemed unconcerned.   
  
"Do you have nothing to say for yourself?," Celeborn thundered.   
  
"Only that you will regret this, Celeborn," Thranduil replied, looking undisturbed. There was a thread in his tone that sent a chill down Haldir's back, however, and the king's peculiar half-smile didn't help. Haldir thought suddenly that he was also very grateful not to be Lord Celeborn. He reflected on the honest, loving, beautiful creature who waited for him in their rooms, and a bolt of love and desire flashed through him. Ah, Gildor, he thought fondly, how I will please you tonight!  
  
A moment later and the object of his affection burst into the room, ending what had become a very uncomfortable silence. "She's gone!," Gildor announced, highly agitated. "Elwyyda's disappeared!"   
  
TBC  
  
A/N: The translations for the elvish phrases follow.  
  
Lle naa vanima--You are beautiful.  
Mela en' coiamin--The love of my life.  
Lle wethrine amin--You deceived me. 


	5. Chapter Five

Title: Wild Justice 5/?   
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer@hotmail.com  
Rating: R  
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline and my precious, evil mind.   
Feedback: Please!  
Warnings: BDSM.   
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused  
  
* * *  
  
The cave was large and dank and, as usual, Glorfindel did not like the sensation of being under a large amount of stone. Especially in this case, as there were signs that a cave-in had taken place recently, and he kept glancing up at the roof uneasily. Erestor had pointed out that it was the best place to interrogate their captives, however, and he had to agree. He stood by the entrance, where a slight breeze tickled his face and he could keep the late afternoon sun in view, while Erestor and his band of trainees did their job. He preferred not to watch.   
  
Glorfindel had always found Erestor's abilities at information extraction impressive, but rather sickening to behold. The fact that those currently under interrogation were slavers, and particularly harsh ones at that, did not much alleviate his distaste. Violence in battle, which, ironically enough, Erestor always found unpleasant, seemed somehow more . . . honest . . . to Glorfindel. He did not shrink from hacking an enemy to pieces, if that enemy had a weapon and an equal opportunity to do the same to him. But this sort of practised cruelty always rather unsettled his stomach, no matter how much he agreed with its necessity. He tried to concentrate on the condition some of the captives they had liberated had been in when they found them, instead of on the steadily increasing cries from the inner areas of the cave.   
  
"Cheese?"  
  
"What? Oh, no, thank you."  
  
Erestor came up beside him, continuing to eat his late lunch placidly, even as a particularly wrenching scream echoed through the air. Glorfindel winced slightly, but made no comment. Erestor settled himself on a large boulder near the entrance and looked him over pensively. "You should eat something, you know. You look awful."   
  
It was true, Glorfindel knew. He'd accidentally seen his reflection in a stream that morning and hadn't bothered to look again. The scene two nights before between he and Elrohir still made him nauseous to contemplate, and he had not helped the problem by getting very drunk in his rooms thereafter. He had not seen Elrohir since as the search team had left at first light in pursuit of the dwarf.  
  
"I take it he found out about you and the king?" Erestor looked sympathetic. They had not really had a chance to discuss the issue before, as all their time had been spent on the trail. It had been easy enough to find, but catching up to Elwyyda had proven more difficult, as she had had the intelligence to steal a horse. They had finally tracked her to a well-traveled road heading north, but then made the unpleasant discovery that someone else had found her first. Well, it could be worse, Glorfindel thought; it could have been orcs, in which case there would be no chance at all of ever seeing her again, or of   
locating her mysterious mountain.   
  
"Orophin told him. I tried to explain." Glorfindel repressed another wince at the memory, instead running a hand through his already tousled hair until it stuck out wildly in every direction. He could not stop seeing Elrohir's eyes, hot with outrage and yet filled with tears, as he asked him WHY. Suddenly he wanted another drink.  
  
"I take it the explanation was not very helpful."  
  
"He hates me, Erestor. He thinks I was toying with him, that he was only one of a string of lovers that I gladly threw over as soon as Thranduil appeared."  
  
Erestor smiled, and waved a flask under Glorfindel's nose. This he accepted thankfully, noting as it burned its way down his throat that it definitely wasn't miruvor. "If he knew Thranduil better, he might feel otherwise," Erestor commented. "The king is not accustomed to being denied what he wants. And he wants you. He made that rather clear in Mirkwood, as I recall."  
  
Glorfindel gasped, both from the alcohol--what WAS this anyway--and at a shrill screech from indoors. "That was 500 years ago! You would think he'd have forgotten by now."  
  
Erestor shrugged, looking philosophical as he casually glanced back in the cave. "Be careful, Cam. I want information, not a corpse." He retrieved his flask and took a drink. Its potency did not seem to bother him, but then, Erestor was a connoisseur. He'd probably long ago become accustomed to it. "Thranduil has lived a long time, Glorfindel. He has learned to be patient. There is a difference, however, between patience and forgetfulness. I do not think Thranduil has forgotten you; you are not rid of him yet."  
  
"I'll never trust him again."  
  
Erestor looked surprised. "I didn't know you'd trusted him before. At any rate, your feelings are not the point. Until you convince the king to leave you alone, patching things up with the young one will be difficult. You may have scared off Haldir's brother, but there will be others . . . Elrohir is very fair."  
  
Glorfindel glowered at his friend. "Is this supposed to be comforting?"  
  
"Oh, forgive me. I was under the impression that you wanted advice, not comfort. I can tell you that all will be well if it will make you feel any better. However, unless you do something about this situation, I am not at all sure that it will be. The problem is that you are not accustomed to thinking like Thranduil. You have to be devious enough to beat him at his own game."  
  
"You think I can't be devious?"  
  
Erestor looked him over critically. "It's hard to say--you aren't exactly at your best at the moment--but I have never known intrigue to be your forte. My dear Glorfindel," he said calmly, as his companion flushed, "do please try not to become emotional. I know you are upset and that I speak plainly, but I thought you wanted my help. Otherwise, what are we talking about?"  
  
Glorfindel glanced around. No one was within hearing range, especially not with the caterwauling going on within the cave. "What did you have in mind?"  
  
* * *  
  
Elrohir spied on Thranduil from his hidden vantage point high in the limbs of a tree adjacent to the library windows. The king was reading something, his long silvery hair almost covering his face as he bent over the leather bound tome before him. He was dressed fairly plainly that day, in a light green cotton tunic and leggings with only a few mithril adornments. One of the latter was a large, beautifully wrought hair clip from which his silken tresses cascaded over his shoulders.   
  
Elrohir had finally calmed down enough to examine the question logically, and had come to a few important conclusions. First, Thranduil was far more attractive than he would ever be, was a king, was vastly wealthy, and was personally magnetic. Second, he and Glorfindel had a previous relationship that Thranduil obviously wanted to continue; wanted it badly enough, in fact, to risk jeopardizing relations with Lorien by concocting a risky scheme to obtain his desire. Third, Glorfindel obviously still felt something for the king; in spite of his protestations, Elrohir knew what he had seen. Added all together, the situation seemed completely hopeless, and Elrohir knew he should just give up. Thranduil always won--at least that was his reputation--and who was he to oppose him?   
  
The king chanced to look up from his reading at that moment, and locked eyes with Elrohir, green to brown, for what seemed an eternity. There was nothing said, but some communication passed between them anyway. Thranduil was the first to look away, returning to his book as if nothing had happened, while Elrohir sat, stunned, clinging to his tree limb. Thranduil had not looked at him with contempt or even with pity. Instead, there had been a challenge in that stare, as if he saw Elrohir as a formidable adversary. It took a few moments for Elrohir to absorb that, and to understand what it meant. When he finally slid down the tree some while later, it was with a fourth resolution in mind. This time, despite all the odds, the king of Mirkwood would not win. Elrohir went off in search of his brother, a determined look in his eyes.  
  
* * *  
  
Haldir waited until he sensed the last elf slide into place around the small camp. It had taken the better part of the night to catch up with their quarry, even with the slavers' information. It had started to rain heavily early in the evening, and the water had obscured the trail. Thankfully, the family was in an old wagon with a wonky back wheel, which kept their pace slow and forced them to stay on the larger, firmer roads. Finally, after managing to lose them three times when the road passed various likely looking junctions, the band of elves finally caught up with the purchasers of that annoying dwarf. Two days and nights of ceaseless toil she had caused them. Personally, Haldir would have preferred to let her stay with the family once she was questioned, as she couldn't possibly receive any worse treatment from them than she had in the mountain all those years, but he knew Gildor would never agree. He closed his eyes in horror of the thought of a dwarf living in his family talan. He would never live it down.  
  
The circle of elves began to close in silently, although with the sound of the rain and the decibel level of the snores coming from inside the little wagon, their caution was probably unnecessary. Haldir reached the door first and cautiously reached for the handle, just as something bit him on the ankle. "What the . . . ?" He jumped back and peered under the wagon, but it was far too dark even for elvin eyes to make out much. He thought he saw something moving--probably a rabid dog based on how his ankle felt--only to see it scurry across to the other side where Gildor nabbed it.   
  
"Elwyyda, it's me!" Haldir heard Gildor's delighted tones and scowled even harder. He should have known. The next time he came anywhere near the creature, he was wearing armor. And she probably WAS rabid . . .   
  
Their party retreated into the forest once Gildor had sawed through the stout rope tying the little dwarf under the wagon. It was fortunate that they had arrived when they did, as she had already made good headway on freeing herself by rubbing the rope over a rough iron nail in the wagon's floorboard. She struggled halfheartedly, but Haldir thought she looked almost glad to see them--or at least, to see Gildor. She glared at Haldir, although why was a mystery. SHE had bitten HIM after all, not the other way around. He eyed the remains of Gildor's tunic which she still wore with a true sense of loss, and listened as his lover tried to worm information out of her. Erestor volunteered to talk to her, but the look Gildor sent him could have curdled milk. "Talk only, I assure you," Erestor said, amused, but Gildor was having none of it. Finally, after nearly an hour standing under still dripping skies, they had enough information to go on with and set out again, Elwyyda riding behind Gildor, her small arms tight about his waist.   
  
* * *  
  
He awoke to darkness, as always. Sometimes he thought he had forgotten what light--real light, from the sun or a star--actually looked like, for it seemed so very long since he had seen it. Sometimes he was convinced that he never had; that all he had ever known was flickering torchlight, which was itself a rarity here. The overseers needed very little light for their huge eyes, and often he was left to toil alone in the darkness, just as he awoke every day to blackness so heavy it was almost possible to reach out and touch it.   
  
It was in those moments before they came to get him, when the final wisps of the dream left his mind and he faced the start of another day, that he most often thought of death. He had seen it come to so many over the years, to other creatures who had their strength and youth devoured by ceaseless labour, and at first he had pitied them. In recent years, however, he had begun to look on them with envy, for at least theirs was an escape of a sort and an end to the constant pain. He had begun to long for such release even more since his last true friend went away. He had tried to persuade her not to attempt escape, for the penalty if caught was a harsh death, but she had been obdurate.   
  
In the end he had been unable to hold her back just for selfish reasons, knowing that, although the chance was slim, she nonetheless might make it. His injuries and size would never have permitted him to take the route she had found, after giving up precious hours of sleep to prowl the tunnels, silently as a cat, walking the way he had shown her. One night she had gone, slipping through the little crack she had located into an adjacent cavern that was not well guarded. He hoped she had made a complete escape, but there was no way to know. Still, he hadn't seen her dragged back, tortured and killed as an example to all the others, so a small hope remained.   
  
As pleased as he was at the thought of her escape, it deprived him of the last comfort he had known. She had been kind and, occasionally, when the gaolers were careless, they had managed a few minutes' conversation. Other than for the dreams, those talks had been the only bright points in his life. Without them, he had no reason to value continued existence. But despite the fact that he ate almost nothing, giving his meager rations to the other slaves whenever the overseers weren't looking, his body continued to cling to life. Sometimes it made him despair, for what can one do when even death is denied?   
  
One can endure. However, he had felt his strength beginning to fade in these last few days, and he smiled at the hope of release--if not today, then soon. It was nice to feel himself almost floating, as if his spirit was trying to escape from the body, but could not quite manage it. In the past week, as his strength ebbed, a strange thing had happened. He had suddenly begun to see things in his dreams that had never come within sight before. At first, it had not been an appreciable difference, just a slight widening of his field of vision, so that he could see more dancers than before, as well as the edge of a table far to the left, loaded with what looked like every kind of delicacy. But two nights ago there had been more.   
  
The presence beside him, always felt but never seen, had at long last resolved itself into the figure of a person--a beautiful male with laughing grey eyes and long, dark hair, who had leaned near to ask him something. He could not hear the question, but it did not matter. He probably would have been unable to answer in any case. He was mesmerized, not only by the beauty of his companion, but also by the knowledge, sure and clear as nothing had been in countless years, that he had once known that face, known it as well as he did his own. That morning, yet another piece slid into place, as the sounds of the heavy footfalls of his goalers woke him from his uneasy rest. One sound had risen above the light music and idle chatter of his dream--a name, spoken in a voice that was clear and powerful and not at all like his was now, but had once been his own.  
  
But he could make out no more. Harsh hands grabbed him and dragged him to his feet, pushing him into line with the others. A new cavern had been opened up, deeper than before, and there was much work to do. He stumbled on the way to the passage, feeling disoriented and unsteady on his feet. One of his gaolers stepped on his right hand when he extended it to break his fall, adding a new pain to a limb already raw and broken from past accidents. He knew he would bear the pain long, for his body no longer healed itself as it had once done. He was jerked back to his feet by a tug on the heavy collar around his neck, and forced back into line. He barely even noticed, so captivated was he by the name that still echoed in his thoughts, almost obscuring the harsh curses of the overseers. It was like music, he thought wearily, that charmed the ear as it healed the soul.  
  
"Elrond."  
  
* * *  
  
They rode the rest of the night and well into the next day before reaching the foothills of the Misty Mountains. The dwarf gave them directions as well as she could, but she had escaped at night and had not been concentrating on anything besides getting away as fast as possible, making her a poor guide. For three days they searched a number of likely looking caves that she thought might be the right entrance, but found nothing. Haldir refrained from making pointed comments about her uselessness, as Gildor had grown very protective of the little creature. So much so that he even slept by its side--no, her side, Haldir reminded himself, having already received a lecture from his lover on the proper use of pronouns.   
  
Not that Gildor had been his lover any time recently, as there had been no opportunity for it on the mission and Haldir doubted that he had enough energy in any case. Urgency, and a feeling that time was running out had overcome the whole group. It was foolish, Haldir told himself for the hundredth time. Even if the dwarf was telling the truth, anyone who had toiled in the mines as long as this Zirak and lived would certainly still be there whenever they managed to find him--if they ever did. Still, he felt a constant urge at the back of his mind telling him to hurry, and he pressed on as unceasingly as the rest.  
  
The morning of the fourth day of the search dawned with little reason to hope that it would be any more productive. However, as the company was eating their lembas and wishing that it was safe enough to make a fire to brew tea, they heard them. Orcs can move silently when they feel threatened, but this group was large and must have felt secure. As the elves looked down from the precipice on which they'd camped, the line of ugly, brutish creatures below pushed and jostled each other, spitting curses and making no effort whatever at silence, as they hurried back to their caves before the sun rose further above the horizon. The line seemed to go on endlessly, but finally the last few passed, failing to notice that they had picked up a silent company of followers who stayed just out of sight.   
  
A few moments later and the line of orcs made their way into a narrow slit in the rock that could easily have been mistaken for a shadow cast by the sun. The small company of elves were now kitted out in the garb, including facemasks, of the last twenty-five orcs, whose bodies were stashed in a nearby ravine. They passed through the entrance unchallenged along with the rest of the company.   
  
Haldir tried not to breathe, as the stench coming from the garments he had liberated for his disguise was almost overpowering. Eyes watering, it took him a few seconds to adjust to the almost darkness within the caves. He then followed Erestor, who was leading the dwarf on a chain towards several lumpy looking guards. Surprisingly, Erestor managed a convincing imitation of the black speech used by the orcs, including harsh vocalizations that Haldir would not have believed could have come from a elf. What he said to the two huge goblins who stood near a tunnel leading downwards Haldir could only guess, but they seemed happy, slapping him on the back and grabbing for the dwarf's chain. Jerking her cruelly forward, they attached a metal collar around her neck, then pushed her ahead of them down a steeply sloping passageway. Erestor gave them a short head start, then followed.   
  
The darkness was overwhelming, and Haldir fought down panic as they kept going what seemed like a ridiculously long way underground. At last the tunnel leveled out and a few torches in heavy iron sconces gave enough light to illuminate a cavern with dripping stalactites and a few pools of water that smelled strangely. Passing through it, they emerged onto one of the most amazing sights Haldir had ever seen--a huge cave, seemingly a mile across, being worked by what had to be a thousand slaves. Some were chipping away at the sides of the chasm with picks, while others gathered up the piles of rock into large containers that still more pulled and pushed along tracks in the floor. What they were mining Haldir could not have said, but it was easily the biggest operation he had ever seen.   
  
Their party skirted the edge of the chasm along a narrow path, carefully pressing back against the walls as the light was too dim to see the way clearly. Finally they came to a smaller cavern where a group of thin pallets were littered about the floor. The dwarf was chained to a ring set into the stone above one, her guards having left her there for the moment. Erestor quickly crossed to her, pulling a huge bunch of keys from his pocket as he did so. Seeing Haldir's look of surprise, he just winked as he flipped quickly through the bunch. "One of these will fit almost any lock--a handy thing to keep around." Apparently his boast was not an idle one, for a few moments later Elwyyda was free and guiding them rapidly through a maze of interconnecting caves.   
  
Haldir noticed slaves of almost every type as they hurried along--men, dwarves, halflings, even orcs who must have irritated someone--but no elves. He was becoming seriously worried that the dwarf had led them all into a trap when they reached another tunnel going what seemed to be straight down. Haldir almost balked, wanting some proof that this really was the way before he descended, but Erestor, Glorfindel and Gildor fearlessly followed Elwyyda into the darkness, making the decision for him. Erestor's Noldorian apprentices crowded in behind him, causing Haldir to feel even more claustrophobic in the narrow passage, but he moved along at a good pace nonetheless.   
  
When Haldir had begun to feel certain that they were being led into the centre of the earth itself, the passage gave way into a tiny room. At the end was a solitary, hunched figure who did not turn from his slow, steady digging even though he must have heard them enter. It was impossible to tell in the dim light who, or what, he was, but Elwyyda gave a small shriek and launched herself at him, almost obscuring him from view as her arms went as far about him as possible. This, Haldir could only surmise, was Zirak, although whether he was elf or no was impossible to tell.   
  
The trip back was much worse than the one in. Haldir decided that, once this was over, he would try to put the whole laborious climb through murky darkness, constantly in fear of discovery, and jumping several times into adjacent caves to keep from being found out, from his mind. At least Zirak was no trouble; after seeing the limping shuffle which was his best attempt at a walk, Haldir simply scooped him up on his back and carried him until his breathing grew laboured, at which time one of the Noldor assumed the burden. They had traded off several more times before that nightmarish climb was over, but finally made it to the first cave again. After incapacitating the guards by the simple expedient of lopping their heads from their ugly shoulders, Haldir felt much better, and was able to emerge from the darkness with some feeling of justice being done. Of course, it still remained to be seen if it had been worth it.  
  
They put a good distance between themselves and the cave before stopping. A group of Noldor went after the horses while the rest turned to examine Zirak. Haldir was almost sick at what he saw. Now that they were once more in sunlight, it was undoubted that, as impossible as it seemed, the creature propped against a tree was actually an elf. But it was an elf as Haldir had never seen one, and fervently hoped he never would again. Whitish hair straggled about a haggard, cadaverous face, skin almost without colour, at least the little that showed under layers of filth. The creature was recognizable as one of the first born only because of a pair of hauntingly beautiful blue eyes. He was dressed only in a few heavily soiled rags which bared his ribs, all of which Haldir could count. Countless bruises and half-healed welts covered his whole body. Haldir could not imagine why they hadn't healed, but then, he had never seen an elf who had undergone this much trauma. Perhaps there were limits even to elvin healing abilities.   
  
Haldir had been so appalled by Zirak's appearance that he had not immediately noticed the reactions of his companions until Gildor let out a bleat of distress. Haldir glanced at him, only to see his big brown eyes fill with tears that shamelessly coursed down his cheeks. The faces of the others were more reserved, but no less intense. Most of the Noldor looked like they were wishing they had killed a few more orcs while in the caves, with several so flushed with rage that Haldir would not have been surprised if they had simply turned and headed back for the mine. The reactions of Erestor and Glorfindel, however, were the most intriguing. Both were simply staring, not in pity or anger, but simply in openmouthed astonishment, at Zirak. Erestor's hand had crept up to his throat and his eyes were huge. Glorfindel was in little better shape, having lost all colour in his face, and one hand clenched and unclenched unconsciously.   
  
Suddenly, Glorfindel seemed to snap out of his trance, and with a terse comment to the rest of them to wait on the horses, he dragged a shell-shocked Erestor into a copse of nearby trees. Haldir listened with all his might, as he suspected everyone else was doing except for Gildor, who had dropped to his knees before Zirak and was attempting to clean him with the aid of his handkerchief and some water from a flask at his waist. He continued to sob openly as he did so, something that did not seem to bother or, indeed, even to completely register with Zirak. Elwyyda hovered about, offering her own, extremely soiled handkerchief, which Gildor accepted but did not use. Haldir thought it could hardly make a difference, as it would be almost impossible for the elf to get any dirtier.   
  
He turned his attention back to the conversation taking place among the trees, but caught little of it. He could see part of Erestor's face around the trunk of a large tree, and he seemed highly agitated, but his words were mostly unintelligible. Haldir did hear him shout, "But that's imposs . . . " before Glorfindel clapped a hand over his mouth, and, presumably, told him to be quiet. Haldir glanced at Zirak again, but saw nothing to explain their distress other than his lamentable state. He noticed now that Zirak's left leg seemed twisted and his foot mangled, before he looked away, unwilling to see any more.   
  
Glorfindel and Erestor returned about the same time that the horses were brought up, and had a short argument over who should ride with Zirak. Haldir waited impatiently for them to decide the issue, which did not seem to him a point about which to contend. Zirak actually stank--why would anyone want to ride with him? Yet Erestor and Glorfindel almost came to blows over who would have the honour. Eventually Glorfindel won, and an almost comatose Zirak was hauled up onto the enormous white stallion. Gildor had managed to coax him into drinking a little miruvor, but it had not had any obvious effect. Haldir seriously wondered if they would not soon be arguing over who had the right to bury him.   
  
He sighed and turned his horse's nose in the direction of home. He hoped this Zirak did survive, not least because of the information he could no doubt give them about the mines. If he had lived there long, there should be little he didn't know, and they would need all of it. Haldir was certain that, as soon as Zirak's condition was seen in Lorien, they would be overwhelmed with volunteers to return here. The Galadrim had much work to do.   
  
TBC 


	6. Chapter Six

Title: Wild Justice 6/?   
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer@hotmail.com  
Rating: R  
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline and my precious, evil mind.   
Feedback: Please!  
Warnings: BDSM.   
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused.  
  
* * *  
  
Elladan peered around the tree trunk and felt Elrohir's too-tight tunic pull across his shoulders. He and his brother looked a great deal alike, but Elladan was slightly broader and a little taller, something that usually precluded them from sharing clothes. There was good reason this afternoon, however, to break with custom. "I can't believe I'm doing this," he said for perhaps the tenth time. Elrohir paid him no attention, but simply hunkered down further behind a bush, waiting. "How do you even know he's coming?"  
  
"He'll be here. I've watched him for three days--he always bathes here. And at around this time."  
  
Elladan sighed and leaned his forehead against the trunk of the tree. He had to be insane. He did owe his brother a favour, but this was well over the top as far as he was concerned. "Just remember your promise," he commented, scowling.   
  
Elrohir grinned. "Afraid you can't take him?"  
  
Elladan did not rise to the bait--he was in no mood for jokes. "He's not a member of the border patrol for nothing. I can take care of myself in most situations, but if this gets out of hand . . . "  
  
"It won't."  
  
"It had better not." Elladan shifted and wished Orophin would just get on with it. He was supposed to have been at the spring by now; it would be just his luck if today the annoying Galadrim decided he was already clean enough, or went somewhere else. Then they'd have to repeat this ridiculous charade all over again another time, and he didn't want to think of the wear and tear on his nerves if that happened.   
  
For lack of anything better to do, Elladan watched his brother, who had now all but disappeared under the bush. Elrohir was usually so level headed; this was not at all like him. Ever since he had taken up with Glorfindel, however, he had been subtly changing. Elladan personally felt that, were his younger sibling to lose out to the king, it might be a blessing in disguise. He couldn't imagine what Elrohir saw in the elf anyway. He supposed Glorfindel was attractive, if you liked males, but he was so cold. Elladan still remembered with chagrin some of the cutting remarks his old tutor had made when he was inattentive in a lesson, and he was surprised he didn't still have bruises from some of the falls he'd taken in sword practice. Even wooden swords hurt when wielded strongly enough, and he didn't recall Glorfindel ever holding back.   
  
No, it was a mystery to him why Elrohir was practically frantic at the thought of losing Glorfindel. But, it was not Elladan's place to interfere in his brother's affairs; he certainly would not have appreciated it had the opposite been true. He could only hope Elrohir knew what he was doing. Elladan, who had had a chance to get to know Thranduil somewhat during his stay in Mirkwood, seriously doubted that any plan Elrohir could concoct would fool the king even for an instant. Thranduil was almost uncanny in the way he managed to stay three of four steps ahead of everyone else, and his intelligence was formidable. Elladan remembered a game of chess he had played with the king during which Thranduil had dictated two letters, kept up an involved conversation on politics with a visiting dignitary and dressed down his wine steward for the quality of the vintage served the night before. And he had still managed to win the game.   
  
If Elrohir liked males, it was a mystery to him why he wasn't following the king of Mirkwood about; there was, after all, nothing cold about Thranduil. Elladan had been a good brother, however, and refrained from expressing his opinion on Elrohir's lack of taste or on the odds of his plan's success. However, good brother or no and debt or no, Elrohir had better get this right because this was NEVER happening again.  
  
"Stop looking so tragic. It's not as if I asked you to sleep with him," Elrohir looked amused. "Although, come to think of it, that would broaden your horizons."  
  
"My horizons are quite broad enough, thank you." That was it--the only way this whole event could possibly get any more absurd was for him to be given sexual advice by his younger brother, who had been and probably remained little more than a novice. Elladan, on the other hand, was widely experienced and thought he could be trusted to know what he did and did not like.  
  
"You don't know what you're missing," Elrohir commented, a dreamy look crossing his features. Elladan repressed a shudder at the image his mind suddenly conjured of Elrohir and Glorfindel . . . Wonderful. That was all he needed right now.  
  
"Neither do you."  
  
"Shush!" Elrohir must have heard something, for he wriggled further under his bush after uttering his warning. A second later and Elladan heard it, too, a light tread through the forest undergrowth--the sound of an elf approaching with no concern about being overheard. Well, he thought grimly, it's show time.  
  
* * *  
  
Gildor watched as Erestor fussed about Zirak, dabbing at him hesitantly with a tiny handkerchief, doing very little to improve the elf's appearance. Gildor wasn't a healer himself, but he had gone through the basic first aid training that all Elrond's agents received, in case of injury to themselves or to a fellow operative. He had also taken care of his share of sick animals from time to time, and even performed emergency repairs on a couple of trees. Which was why Lord Erestor's actions made little sense.   
  
It almost looked as if Erestor was afraid of Zirak, or at least wary of hurting him further. Gildor supposed that was understandable, as the elf was obviously in very serious condition, but doing nothing was not likely to help him. They were still two days' ride from Lorien where, Gildor fervently hoped, Lord Elrond would be waiting for them. Until then, they could only do a limited amount for Zirak, but even that small aid did not seem to be forthcoming. Even Lord Glorfindel, who Gildor would have sworn was afraid of nothing, seemed strangely subdued, and did not seem inclined to interfere with Erestor's efforts.   
  
Finally, Gildor could stand it no longer. They had ridden hard all day, putting as much distance between themselves and the mountain as they could, but had paused as night fell to make camp beside a small stream. Gildor tested it and the water, although only tepid, was certainly suitable for bathing. It seemed obvious to him that the first order of business was to get Zirak cleaned up, as his feeble efforts earlier in the day had done little good, and to examine the extent of his injuries. As Erestor was making little headway with the first and none at all with the second, Gildor offered his services. To his surprise, Erestor seemed actually relieved, and Zirak's comfort was from then on Gildor's responsibility.  
  
Bathing him was a somewhat traumatic experience, as it was not until Gildor removed his few rags that he realised just what a task Lord Elrond had before him. Personally, he would not have known where to start, although he rather thought it would be with trying to bulk him up a bit. Gildor hated to see anything underfed--for some reason it had always upset him--and Zirak was practically a skeleton. It was strangely beautiful the way the skin was stretched over his bones, highlighting his elegant form. It reminded Gildor of the delicate ivory carvings he had seen in an import shop in Gondor, but they had been artistic expressions and not meant to be representative of real, living flesh. The sight of one of the abstract works seemingly come to life was not comforting to Gildor, who found it almost painful to look at him. Fortunately, Zirak did not seem to notice his discomfort, but simply did whatever he was told without question. Gildor doubted that he was even fully aware of what was going on--there was a vacant look in his eyes, as if he was seeing things from another place or time. Gildor led him into the water, but had difficulty bathing him and holding him steady against the current at the same time. Fortunately, Haldir noticed his problem and came to help.   
  
Together they managed to finally get Zirak semi-clean, although, when they took him from the water, he was still dingy enough that any self-respecting elf would have headed back to the bathing chambers at once. Some of the dirt embedded under his nails Gildor thought might be there permanently. Still, he had the impression that the dull sheen of Zirak's skin was due less to dirt than to illness, and hoped Lord Elrond's attentions would be sufficient to help him. Gildor had also washed his hair, although there was little that could be done for it. He was afraid to be very thorough, as clumps of the strangely textured locks kept falling out whenever he touched them. Haldir had seemed especially moved by that; Gildor had looked up to see his lover regarding a handful of Zirak's hair that had come out into his hand as he helped to bathe him. Instead of repulsed, he looked stricken--rather the same way Gildor felt.   
  
Finally, they put a spare tunic and pair of leggings borrowed from the slightest of the Noldor on him, and wrapped the fragile elf in a warm blanket. He was persuaded to take more miruvor, although he did not seem interested in food despite Gildor's best efforts to tempt him. Gildor put him between he and Elwyyda, who curled up alongside with no apparent revulsion at his appearance; he supposed she had grown accustomed to it. Haldir spooned up behind him, and Gildor was grateful as always for his presence. Haldir was always comforting--warm and solid and practical--and Gildor suddenly missed their usual intimacy. There was nothing to be done for it now, however, but he promised himself to arrange a quiet evening alone with his lover once they returned to Lorien.   
  
He drew Zirak more fully into his arms to keep him warm, feeling the clammy temperature of his skin despite the proximity of the fire. He forced himself to remain calm and not to think about how insubstantial the elf in his arms felt, almost as if he could dissolve at any minute. He hoped he managed not to communicate his distress to Zirak, but it was a long time before he could finally manage to sleep.  
  
* * *  
  
Elladan swallowed and stepped out from behind the tree as soon as he heard Orophin enter the pool. Elrohir slithered off into the forest, presumably to put the second part of his plan into effect. Elladan had about ten minutes, then, which suddenly seemed a very great deal of time, indeed. He mentally kicked himself--you've never been a coward, just do it--and walked as casually as possible towards the bathing Galadrim.  
  
"Greetings, Orophin." His voice sounded a bit high, and Elladan forced himself to calm down. Why was he this nervous? It wasn't as if there was time for anything to actually happen . . . He was so busy trying to remain composed, that it was a few seconds before Orophin's actions registered with him. The Galadrim had retreated to the far end of the pool and was looking at him with a wild-eyed expression.   
  
"Stay away from me!"   
  
Elladan regarded him bemusedly. All right, this was unexpected. And he had been worried about being wrestled to the ground. "I just want to apologise for what happened the other night. You shouldn't have been treated that way." He tried to approach Orophin, as it would be a little difficult to set the scene if they were on opposite sides of the pool. However, the Galadrim resolutely kept the width of the pond between them, circling slowly in the opposite direction.   
  
"Fine, you've apologised. Now go." He pointed to the forest, and actually made little shooing motions with his hand. Elladan blinked. What in Arda was wrong with the elf?   
  
"I thought perhaps we could talk for a while," Elladan offered, keeping his voice low and, he hoped, soothing, as they continued their strange dance about the pond. Orophin was at a disadvantage there, as the water made rapid movements difficult, but Elladan did not want to scare him by attempting to rush things. Besides, that would hardly give the right impression.  
  
"I have nothing to say to you." Orophin had circled around to where he had left his clothes on the bank, and he now climbed out and began to dress. Elladan watched him, wondering again at his brother's lack of taste. He didn't know Orophin personally, so perhaps he had flaws of character or a lack of wit, but there was certainly nothing wrong with him physically. His body was long and lean and perfectly proportioned, and his silvery hair almost reached his buttocks. Speaking of which . . . .Elladan shook his head and stopped admiring the way the water droplets clung to Orophin's tight skin. Elbereth, but he had been spending too much time with his brother, lately!  
  
"I just want a few minutes of your time. We need to talk." Elladan knew his time was running out and Thranduil would be passing by at any moment. He wasn't sure how Elrohir planned to arrange it, but it wasn't his problem. His part in all this was simply to insure that, when the king did pass by, he saw an elf whom he would hopefully believe to be Elrohir, in a tight embrace with Orophin. His brother had insisted that Thranduil would never drop his guard enough to be deceived unless he believed Elrohir had given up on Glorfindel and was no longer a factor. So, step one in his brother's insane bid to keep his lover, was to pretend that an affair was taking place between he and the border guard. Not surprisingly, it didn't seem to be working.  
  
Elladan saw with irritation that Orophin had thrown on his tunic and was reaching for his leggings, showing no interest in even responding to his comment. He was not accustomed to having prospective partners treat him this way, and the fact that Orophin was male and presumably believed him to be Elrohir did not lessen the insult. It was also a factor that he was running out of time. No, make that was out of time, Elladan thought, hearing approaching footsteps. Abandoning words, he launched himself at Orophin, grabbed his head and pulled him into as passionate a kiss as he could manage. To his surprise, he found that it was not that much different than kissing a female, although the body against his own was most decidedly male.   
  
On the theory that anything worth doing is worth doing right, Elladan dropped a hand to one of Orophin's sleek, wet buttocks, which he kneaded gently, while keeping the other hand behind his neck to insure that he didn't escape from their kiss. For a brief instant, Orophin responded, pressing himself hard against Elladan and winding one well-muscled leg about him. It felt surprisingly good, which rather worried Elladan who suddenly wondered what might happen if the king decided to stay for an extended show. But then Orophin wrenched himself out of Elladan's embrace and ran off into the forest, with no explanation and still half clothed. Elladan frowned, hoping the king hadn't witnessed that, only to hear his brother's familiar laughter echoing around the glade.  
  
"What is so funny?" Elladan adjusted his tunic before turning, to make sure he didn't afford his brother any more amusement by allowing him to notice his current state. It was nothing, he told himself--a normal reaction to any type of physical intimacy. It didn't mean anything.  
  
"The great lover is rebuffed at last!" Elrohir was almost rolling on the forest floor in mirth, and he was alone.  
  
"I thought the king was supposed to be with you? This had better not be some type of joke at my expense, brother."  
  
"No, no." Elrohir made what looked like a genuine attempt to contain himself. "He wasn't in the library. Father just arrived and threw everything into a tizzy as no one was expecting him until tomorrow. We'll have to try again--after you've worked on your technique!"  
  
"Very amusing. May I remind you, however, that I just fulfilled my part of this charade? If you couldn't get the king here, that's your problem, not mine."  
  
Elrohir regarded him narrowly. "It seems to me that it was a good thing that I couldn't manage it, as that was hardly a convincing performance. What did you do to him? He fled like a whole band of orcs was after him."  
  
"No, just one very enraged seneschal. Elrohir, I really think you need to rethink this plan. Orophin is scared witless of Glorfindel. He isn't going to cooperate."  
  
"But we only need a few minutes!" Elrohir looked incensed. "This is just like him, you know. When I wanted him to leave me be, he was constantly underfoot. Now that I need him for one small favour, he can't bear to be in the same area!"  
  
"Well perhaps you would have more success if you did this yourself. I am, after all, not the object of his affection."  
  
"No. I can't. I told you--after what happened, if I get too close to him, I'm likely to stick a knife in him! He deceived me, and he'll pay for that--but Thranduil comes first. And you WILL help me brother," Elrohir said, eyes flashing, "it is a simple thing I ask of you, and considering the number of times I have covered for your indiscretions . . . "  
  
Elladan sighed. Sometimes, having a brother was a great trial. "What exactly do you want me to do?"   
  
* * *  
  
Celeborn was becoming worried. Elrond and Thranduil had greeted each other like long lost friends, which they most certainly were not, and spent the majority of the afternoon engaged in a long conversation in the king's quarters, in which a series of supposed emergencies had kept Celeborn from participating. Even more disturbing was the fact that those emergencies were obviously contrived, and he strongly suspected the hand of the king in at least some of them. So, Thranduil wanted to talk to Elrond, who was suddenly very friendly with his old enemy, without Celeborn's presence. This did not bode well. The only thing that somewhat comforted Celeborn was that his wife had had to remain in Imladris, as someone had to protect that fair land while its ruling family and chief officers were all away.   
  
Celeborn finally gave up and, after dealing with yet another contrived problem, retired to his library. It could be, he thought, settling behind his desk, that he had been a trifle harsh in a few of the comments he'd made to Thranduil three nights ago. But then, the king's actions had been truly without precedent; really, one would expect more self-control than that from an elf of his age. Still, he had perhaps been too hasty, as, after all, no actual damage had been done. He decided that he would make an opportunity to speak with Thranduil after dinner, to patch things up somewhat. He supposed he had better have a talk with Elrond, too, just to insure that his son-in-law didn't use this trip to Lorien to try to obtain revenge for that little incident in Imladris. Yes, Celeborn decided, suddenly feeling somewhat more cheerful. He would arrange a discussion tonight, and work everything out.   
  
* * *  
  
"All right. THIS will work."  
  
"That's what you said last time." Elladan regarded the small vial in his hand dubiously. "I don't like it. What if it poisons him? I know you don't like him, but . . . "  
  
"It won't poison him. Just remember, a few drops only! Any more than that, and the Valar alone know what it might do to him. Just put it in his wine or something--it's supposed to be tasteless. Still, it's probably best to use one of the darker wines, like that Berdruskan Thranduil favours. That's heavy enough to disguise anything."  
  
Elladan put aside the fact that he had no idea if Orophin even liked Berdruskan--he personally found it too intense to accompany most foods--and kept to the point. "I am not drugging Orophin until I know exactly what this is, where you obtained it, and if there are any risks." Elladan glared at his brother who glared back. After a moment, Elrohir gave in, as Elladan had known he would. He needed his help, after all.  
  
"Fine. As I told you, it is a powerful aphrodisiac that will make it impossible for him to ignore you again. All you have to do is get him alone in the library for a few minutes--say, half an hour after he's ingested this--and let nature take its course. But," Elrohir added quickly, seeing his brother's expression, "I will see that the king is steered your way quickly, and once he is convinced that I am really involved with Haldir's brother and leaves, I'll rush in and rescue you. Don't worry, everything will be fine."  
  
Elladan seriously doubted that. What concerned him more, however, was Elrohir's attempt to avoid answering his question fully. "And you obtained this magic elixir where?"  
  
Elrohir sighed. "If you must know, I was worried about keeping Glorfindel's attentions, so I briefly experimented with various ways of . . . spicing up our relationship. I never had cause to use this, though, so I can't actually tell you what its effects are."  
  
Elladan crossed his arms and looked at him. "Very well," Elrohir sighed. "I bought it from one of the gypsies who visited Imladris--you remember Deya?"  
  
Elladan repressed a smile. Oh, did he remember Deya. Now THAT had been an interesting evening. "She gave you this?," he looked at the small vial with more interest. Anything Deya cooked up was bound to have possibilities.   
  
"Gave? Hardly. It cost me a fortune. Still, she said it would work, and that it is harmless, but she was quite insistent on not overdoing the dosage. As I said, a few drops should be sufficient."  
  
Elladan nodded. If Deya made it, it probably was all right, although that meant that it would probably work, too. Which led him to the prospect of spending his evening being chased about the library by a sex crazed Galadrim. He sighed. Maybe he should have stayed in Imladris, after all. "Very well, but I am warning you, brother. This is the last time. If anything goes wrong tonight . . . "  
  
"It won't, at least not on my end. You just make sure to get that in his glass."  
  
Which had seemed easy enough, Elladan thought. Until, that is, a servant had accidentally knocked over Orophin's wine glass before he could drink any of it, forcing Elladan to have to go to plan B. Grabbing a nearby bottle of Berdruskan Dark, he managed to tip the little vial into it while seeming to be simply removing the cork. He wasn't sure, but he thought the size of the bottle, which was substantial, should make the dosage about right per glass. He would just have to make sure no one else but Orophin drank any.   
  
Disaster struck just as he put the drugged wine back on the table, making sure that it was close by Orophin's place. Before he could protest, Thranduil, seated a few places down from them beside Celeborn, gave a pleased cry and leaned over to grab the bottle. Elladan sat frozen, unable to react in his surprise. Later, he would wish that he had knocked the thing to the floor and, if necessary, stomped on it to insure that it would never be consumed, but at the moment he could think of no response that would not look extremely odd. So he simply watched with horrified eyes as Thranduil began extolling the merits of this particular vintage to Elrond and Celeborn, and filled their glasses--really big glasses, Elladan noted with dismay--with the deep burgundy liquid.   
  
He had no idea what to do, and Elrohir was not around to help, as they had decided it would be a good idea that Orophin not see them together until the charade had been played out. So, he simply sat, watching with steadily mounting concern as the three at the head of the table slowly emptied the large bottle. He could only hope that the food they had eaten would retard the effects somewhat, although they surely had consumed several times the recommended dosage by the end of the meal. Watching as Thranduil exited the dining hall after dinner, his arms flung affectionately about the shoulders of Celeborn and Elrond, Elladan began to seriously worry. Oh, Elbereth! He had to find his brother.  
  
TBC 


	7. Chapter Seven

Title: Wild Justice 7/?   
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer@hotmail.com  
Rating: R   
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline and my precious, evil mind.   
Feedback: Please!  
Warnings: BDSM. This chapter is completely PWP--no redeeming plot value at all. I blame it on darling Pira of the magic pen, whose images just won't leave my head. If this isn't your cup of tea, you can skip this and pick up the story line with chapter eight (where plot returns once again).   
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused.  
  
* * *  
  
Elladan was dragged into an alcove as soon as he exited the dining hall. "Where have you been?" His enraged brother glowered at him out of the dim light of the corridor, his eyes reflecting the reddish glow of a nearby lantern. "Orophin left FIVE MINUTES AGO! I sent a servant after Thranduil as soon as Orophin passed me, on the apparently stupid assumption that you would be right out. Where have you been? No, don't answer that, just come with me."  
  
Elladan found himself being pulled down the corridor at almost a run. "Listen, Elrohir, there's something I have to tell you . . . "  
  
"Tell me later. Thanks to you, we have almost no time to get you and Orophin in place. He's in the library--I had a servant tell him that Celeborn wanted to see him there--but you're going to have a job to do to make this convincing in the time you have. The potion should help."  
  
"But, Elrohir, that's what I have to tell you. The potion didn't . . . " But they had arrived at the library door, and Elrohir shoved him through with a hissed order to make it look good. Then he was gone, and Elladan was faced with a panic stricken Orophin, who immediately fled to the other side of the room on catching sight of him. This was just going to be a great evening.  
  
"Look, Orophin, I . . . "  
  
"Why can't you leave me alone? You're going to get us both killed!"  
  
Elladan felt distinctly put upon. None of this was his fault, yet here he was, having to sort out the mess that other people's lack of common sense had caused. It was completely unfair. He had managed affairs with three elf-maids at once and never had this kind of difficulty, yet his brother could not seem to have a relationship with just one person without causing all kinds of chaos. Elladan would have preferred nothing so much as simply turning around and exiting the library, leaving all this behind him. And he would have, too, except for the really alarming amount of blackmail material Elrohir had amassed on him through the years. Well, as long as he was here, he might as well go along with it. In a few minutes, it would all be over and he could go sort out the other catastrophe they had hanging over their heads.   
  
"If you're worried about Glorfindel, you needn't be. He isn't even here."  
  
"But he'll find out! What are you trying to do to me?" Orophin was regarding him with an odd expression, half hunger and half fear, backed up against the fireplace with nowhere to go. Elladan smiled suddenly, and took a few steps forward. Seduction was seduction, after all, despite the target, and he was a master at it. Not to mention the fact that this could be an interesting experiment. He'd been telling himself all through dinner that his attraction to Orophin that morning had just been a fluke. He had thought the Galadrim looked good that night, in a deep turquoise tunic that matched his eyes, but no wave of lust had overtaken him at the dinner table. But then, they hadn't actually been in contact, and Orophin had studiously avoided even looking at him the whole time. This was a chance to put his fears to rest once and for all, and to take care of his debt to Elrohir at the same time.   
  
Advancing on the quaking Galadrim, Elladan smiled reassuringly. "I just want you to know that I feel terrible about how things turned out. It was really unfortunate, because I had begun to think there might be something between us."  
  
"You had?" Orophin looked torn, and Elladan thought if he had another ten minutes or so, he could probably convince him with words alone. But Elrohir had said time was short. Deciding that actions were better than words anyway, he simply pushed Orophin against the unyielding rocks behind him, molding their bodies together as he pressed a kiss on the unmoving lips. It was soft and gentle at the start, but didn't stay that way for long. His hunger began to get the better of him as the elf in his arms gave a passionate groan and parted his lips, yet tried to move away at the same time. Elladan grabbed the Galadrim's wrists and forced them to the rocks on either side of his head, while deepening the kiss to help keep him in place. He really wished Thranduil would hurry up, as he found Orophin's struggles strangely erotic. Elladan was pressed so tightly against him that could not help but feel it when Orophin's body began to react, which meant that his own arousal was probably equally obvious. Elrohir, he thought in desperation, as Orophin gave up the struggle and began sucking on his tongue, what is taking you so long?  
  
"Oh, my apologies." Elladan broke the kiss when heard the king's mellow tenor behind him--he had needed air anyway--and glanced over his shoulder to see Thranduil standing in the doorway. "I didn't mean to interrupt. Ah, there it is." He picked up a heavy book from a nearby table and tucked it under his arm. "Please, continue . . . Elladan." And he was gone in a swirl of grey velvet and flashing onyx stones.   
  
"Elladan?" The arms he had been holding against the stone were suddenly about him, and Elladan turned back to find a wide smile breaking over Orophin's face. He tried moving back a step, but that just seemed to arouse his companion more, and his grip tightened. "What an interesting development."  
  
"Er, Orophin, you see . . . ," Elladan wasn't really sure how to begin to explain everything, but he needed to stall for a few minutes until Elrohir arrived as agreed and they could work something out. He had known Thranduil wouldn't be fooled by any ruse his brother could invent. With a combat maneuver Glorfindel had shown him long ago, he broke Orophin's hold and lunged for the door. Orophin almost immediately tripped him up and tried to follow him to the floor, but Elladan rolled away at the last second and sprang back to his feet. The only problem was that Orophin now lay between him and the door, and Elladan had no choice but to back up against what were, he saw with black irony, the same stones next to which he'd recently held the Galadrim captive.   
  
Orophin apparently appreciated the humour, for he smiled even more widely as he slowly rose to his feet. Elladan looked past him, frantically hoping to see Elrohir, but his cursed brother remained strangely absent. Orophin, looking like nothing so much as a large cat on the prowl, slowly approached, licking his lips in obvious anticipation. "Now, where were we?"  
  
* * *  
  
Thranduil rejoined the Eldar in Celeborn's private study with a satisfied smile on his face. A large book was in his hand, and Elrond glanced at it, noting the title with amusement. "Ten thousand Flora of the Golden Wood? I didn't know horticulture was a passion of yours, Thranduil."  
  
The king shrugged and helped himself to wine. It was an excellent vintage, Ithil's Tears he thought it was called, which suited its strange, light blue colour. But it could not compare to the one served with dinner. That had been truly exceptional. "Oh, I have many interests," he replied, arching a brow at Elrond. Now? The master of Imladris smiled, and rose to meet him, curling an arm familiarly about his waist.   
  
"Then I propose a little midnight walk through the woods. We can see how many of your book's examples we can find." The words were innocent enough, but the tone was not, and Thranduil hid a smile behind his wine glass.   
  
"Excellent notion," he commented between sips, and, strangely enough, it actually sounded like one. He had become involved in this little farce because someone needed to take Celeborn down a peg or two, and with Elrond's help the odds of success were overwhelmingly in his favour. What he hadn't expected, however, was to be quite so . . . engaged by the prospect. Well, this might prove to be a rather stimulating evening after all, he thought, admiring the way the rubies so cleverly worked into Elrond's velvet robes caught the light, just as his companion's laughing dark eyes were doing. Strange that he had never noticed before just how attractive Elrond was. Others had long praised his beauty, but Thranduil had never been able to see it, until now. Suddenly, the prospect of a midnight stroll sounded enticing for more than one reason, and he practically pulled Elrond out the door, leaving a stunned looking Celeborn behind them.  
  
* * *  
  
Elladan had been trained by Glorfindel himself, and thus was no novice when it came to self-defense. However, the Galadrim before him was centuries older than he, and had much more experience--much of it in actual combat fighting off orc incursions into the Golden Wood. Orophin was also heavier and taller than he and, Elladan had to admit, had every reason to be seriously annoyed. This was not good.  
  
Cursing his brother under his breath, Elladan decided that his only chance was action, as Orophin did not look amenable to listening to a long explanation of how this was really all Elrohir's fault. Elladan waited until Orophin was almost on him, then struck out with a feint to the right, followed by a fast lunge, low and to the left. All he needed was to get around him; with just a few seconds he could cross the large room and escape into the corridor. Orophin could hardly attack him in the hallways of the royal talan, leaving Elladan free to find his miserable excuse for a brother and deal out some much needed justice.   
  
Unfortunately, Orophin was not fooled by his attempted ruse, and Elladan barely escaped being trapped a second time, hopping across the foot Orophin tried to hook about his ankle and spinning away, beginning to breath hard in rising panic. Orophin recovered almost immediately and came after him, arms spread and body crouched low, ready to shift to either side depending on his prey's movements. And that was what he felt like, Elladan thought wildly, some small animal being stalked by a master hunter. He threw himself to the side in a twisting, diving motion, hoping to catch the Galadrim off guard, but it didn't work. Orophin grabbed his arm as he passed, and wrestled him to the floor, his superior weight enabling him to counter every attempt Elladan made to break free.   
  
Hunger and rage were at war on the face that loomed over him, but only for an instant. Then a calm mask slid into place and a small smile appeared on the handsome features. "Your family owes me," Orophin commented, almost casually as he settled himself astride Elladan's body. His thighs were tensed to prevent any escape attempts, while he gathered both Elladan's hands into one of his own and began searching around in his pocket for something. "I have had quite a week, thanks to you and that arrogant brother of yours, and I claim compensation. Care to speculate, pretty Peredhil, on what my price will be?"  
  
Elladan had passed beyond panic at this point; when Orophin gave up his search and ripped his belt off to bind his captive's hands, he reached true terror. This just could not be happening to him. WHERE was Elrohir? Where was anyone? This was a public room, for Elbereth's sake--why was there no one looking for a late night book or scroll to read? And why was his treacherous body finding this whole scenario so terribly arousing? He briefly wondered if he'd drunk any of Deya's concoction by mistake, but was certain he had not. So what was wrong with him?  
  
"I have heard tales of the prowess of Elladan of Imladris," Orophin murmured, winding the remaining material of the belt slowly about his hand and drawing Elladan towards him in the process. "I look forward to seeing if you deserve your reputation, cousin."   
  
* * *  
  
Celeborn watched Elrond and the king go with an odd feeling of loss. He should be relieved, he knew, for it was obvious that he was the last thing on either of their minds this night, so his fears of incipient revenge had obviously been unwarranted. Still, it was not relief he felt as he watched them leave, so obviously caught up in each other. Was this why they had wanted to be alone all afternoon--some new attraction he knew nothing about, instead of making plots and schemes? He supposed, now that he thought about it, that he had been a little vain to assume that two of the greatest living elves had nothing better to do than think of ways of torturing him.   
  
He sat by the fire, drinking alone and feeling restless, nervous, and unsatisfied. He should just go to bed. Take a bath, get into more comfortable clothes than these stiff, formal robes, and perhaps read something . . . he picked up Thranduil's book, and idly flipped through it. He had commissioned it centuries ago, but had never actually read it. It looked to be as dry as he had always imagined, and he wondered what the king saw in it. Until, that is, a small paper fluttered out from between the pages and landed on the plush carpet at his feet. It was in Elrond's handwriting--Celeborn would recognize that elegant script anywhere--and after reading the few sentences on it, he began to turn slightly purple. Within a few seconds he was out of his rooms and rushing down the corridor, a murderous expression on his face. That they would dare . . . well, he thought grimly, beginning to track them through the woods he knew so well, we'll see about this.  
  
* * *  
  
Elladan had given up hope of rescue, and decided he would just have to deal with this himself. Orophin was bluffing. He would hardly take him unwilling--such was simply not done by the Eldar. Of course, Elladan acknowledged with a good deal of chagrin, his body seemed determined to enjoy this, making it difficult for him to claim genuine reluctance. It was that fact, more than anything else, which concerned him. He had wanted to know the truth about his reaction to the handsome Galadrim, and now that he did, he had no idea what to do about it. Well, he thought a second later when Orophin's lips touched his once more, perhaps he did have some notion . . .   
  
The hunger he felt was matched in his captor's kiss, hot and bruising and violently satisfying. It was a completely new experience for someone who thought he had done it all. Elladan struggled against his bonds, not this time in an attempt to be free, but because he suddenly very much wanted to feel Orophin's tight muscles under his hands, wanted to find out what it took to pleasure the powerful creature on top of him. Perhaps his horizons could do with a bit of expanding, after all . . .   
  
"Elladan! I'm so sorry I'm late, but I had to . . . "  
  
Elrohir broke off as twin sets of angry eyes met his. "Do you mind, brother?" Elladan inquired haughtily. "We are rather busy here."  
  
"But . . . but, don't you want . . . I mean, I said I'd rescue you . . . "  
  
Orophin laughed, a rich rolling baritone, and Elladan felt like joining him. "When I need your help, LITTLE brother," he commented languidly, "I'll be sure to let you know. Make yourself useful and lock the door behind you, would you?" He turned back to Orophin, who was regarding him with wary amusement. "Now, I think you expressed some doubts about my reputation, cousin?"  
  
* * *  
  
Celeborn crept closer to the little glade, having spent a good deal of time and effort tracking the two wily Elda through the silent forest. They had certainly seemed to know where they were going, for despite his familiarity with the paths about Caras Galadhon, they had moved so swiftly that it had been a task to follow them. When he came to the tree line ringing the small open area, he only barely managed to avoid an outraged yelp. So, it had all been true. Erestor had been running some type of . . . school of perversion, under his very nose. His stunned gaze took in the various implements littering the field in awed disbelief; apparently Elrond's advisor did not believe in half measures. Well, he would put a stop to this first thing on the morrow, and have words both with his son-in-law and with Lord Erestor when that presumptuous elf returned. This might be normative in Imladris, but this was HIS realm and he certainly didn't intend to allow . . .   
  
Celeborn's thoughts were interrupted by the sight of the two Elda in the glade, who did not seem at all outraged by the equipment on display. Thranduil, in fact, was slowly spinning the great wheel as if it held some type of fascination for him, and eyeing Elrond speculatively. The master of Imladris merely laughed, his grey eyes sparkling in the starlight, which also sparked little flashes off the jewels worn by him and the king. Everything was tinted faintly blue under the night's veil, giving the whole scene a mystical, almost fey quality. Elrond said something, but his voice was pitched too low for Celeborn to catch the words, so he circled carefully around to a position closer to their stance near the far side of the glade.   
  
"Haven't you ever had a fantasy?" Elrond was playing with some manacles that hung from a nearby tree limb, pushing them away and then catching them deftly on their return.   
  
Thranduil shrugged, his eyes following the play of muscles in Elrond's back with what looked like extreme interest. "Oh, yes, but he'd never agree to it. You know Celeborn. All talk, but when it comes to action . . . "  
  
"I still think we should have made the offer." Elrond looked pensive. 'As they say, nothing ventured . . . "  
  
"I am telling you, he isn't that adventurous." Thranduil moved from his wheel to come behind Elrond, pulling the Elda into a tight embrace. "You and I, now, may rival him in age, but not in world-weariness. Unless I greatly mistake matters, you have not forgotten how to feel. And I can assure you that I have not."  
  
Elrond smiled and relaxed back against Thranduil. "So, you're saying we should forget the fair Celeborn, and leave him to his wine and books and chill, lonesome bed?"   
  
"Absolutely." Thranduil started to nuzzle Elrond's neck and the Elda did not seem to mind. Celeborn was furious, with the number of his provocations rising by the minute. It was bad enough that a haven of perversion had been erected within his borders, for instructing some of his people in who knew what twisted concepts, but now he was being dismissed as a doddering old fool who was not worthy of notice. Was that why Elrond had not bothered to come after him? Had he truly not considered Celeborn worthy of the effort? This was too much to be borne.  
  
"So this is where you ran off to. Rather a strange place to seek out flora," Celeborn commented, emerging from the woods and masking his anger with a bantering tone. "Quite an interesting area. Strange, that I don't recall giving permission for it to be constructed." He halted by the wheel that had so fascinated Thranduil and ran a finger down its smooth surface. It must have been newly made, but care had apparently been taken to insure that no splinters marred its even, satiny surface.   
  
"Ask him," Elrond said, ignoring his comment as he moved to stand on Celeborn's right. Thranduil came up along his left side. Being trapped between them was to be caught in a cross current of powerful energy, and it left Celeborn slightly giddy.   
  
"He'll just say no," Thranduil replied, trailing a hand over the worked satin covering Celeborn's arm. "Positively no sense of adventure."  
  
Celeborn repressed his steadily mounting outrage with extreme difficulty. He wished Thranduil would take his hand away. It was not a particularly familiar gesture, but was irritating nonetheless, spreading what felt like little paths of flame along his arm. Elbereth, and the elf wasn't even touching his bare skin! Celeborn closed his eyes and decided that, maybe, they were right. He really wasn't up to this. He had tried letting someone else take control recently and it had been a disaster. He preferred being in charge, yet he had made no preparations for tonight. Better to leave while he still could.  
  
"I think you underestimate him," Elrond was saying, a smile of dubious origin playing about his mouth as his hand trailed up Celeborn's thigh to his groin. "He just takes a while to warm up."   
  
A dark flush, whether of passion or anger Celeborn himself could not have said, spread across his face, looking vaguely blue in the twilight of the Lorien night. "Did you drug me?," he demanded abruptly, as his blood pounded through his veins and his arousal grew, despite all attempts to contain it.  
  
Elrond laughed, his eyes dark and smouldering. "No, my dear Celeborn, I would not stoop so low. Unlike you, I do not need . . . extra help . . . with my seductions."  
  
"You know, Elrond, his eyes do look a bit glazed," Thranduil commented, peering deeply into Celeborn's face. His proximity caused Celeborn's blood pressure to edge up another few notches. "Why just look. His pupils are positively enormous. One might almost think he was excited about something."  
  
"Oh, he isn't really excited yet," Elrond whispered as, lazily possessive, he lifted Celeborn's wrist, noting the pulse rate with a little smile as he guided the hand slowly towards a manacle affixed to the wheel. Celeborn could have resisted, he had time, but somehow it was impossible to move. He felt like a puppet being manipulated by a master, or, more likely, by his body's own needs. "But," Elrond added, his voice suddenly rough, "I do assure you that he will be."  
  
* * *  
  
Elladan decided that the library was going to be his favourite room in Lorien from then on. He had really underestimated the potential of such areas, he thought, as he slid so deeply into Orophin that his stomach touched his back. Oh, he is good, Elladan thought, his hand straying beneath his lover to find him hard and needful, sliding against the velvety softness of the carpet hungrily. Taking him in hand, he squeezed gently, going on the instinctive assumption that Orophin would like to have done for him what his muscles were doing for Elladan, and by his reaction, it was the right move. Elladan was strangely pleased that he could bring such pleasure to another male, and not, he hoped, let his inexperience in such matters show.   
  
He had been nervous at first, when Orophin had suddenly stood to rip off his tunic and leggings, then dropped to his knees to scrabble about obsessively in the pockets of his discarded clothes. Elladan had not immediately understood what it meant when he gave a triumphant cry and held up a small bottle, but when he began to drizzle its contents over his hand, he had figured it out. "If I had left this in the talan, I think I would kill myself," Orophin commented with feeling, and Elladan began to slowly back away. Maybe he had been a bit precipitate. It might be better to take things slow . . .   
  
"Oh no, you don't." Orophin stopped his retreat by placing a shining knee on the hem of his robe, grinning at him wickedly as he tugged one handed at Elladan's tunic. "Get undressed and turn over, on your knees," he instructed, dipping his fingers again in the oil.   
  
"I beg your pardon?" Elladan seriously wondered if the Galadrim had lost his mind. If anyone was going to do any taking around here, it would be him. "You're already undressed. It seems more logical for YOU to roll over."  
  
"I'm not interested in logic," Orophin replied, at last succeeding in removing Elladan's too tight tunic. "I'm interested in you, on your knees, now." Somehow, using only his legs, the Galadrim managed to flip Elladan over, then began tugging down his leggings with his free hand.   
  
"Now wait just a minute," Elladan began, before a well-slicked hand quested between his bared thighs, rubbing oil onto his skin, caressing his penis with practised ease and causing him to surge against him for an instant. "I, er, . . . ," Elladan suddenly found that he had forgotten whatever it was he intended to say.   
  
"Up," Orophin commanded, nudging him, and Elladan followed orders, almost disbelieving that this was happening. More oil was rubbed between his cheeks before a finger was inserted, spreading him open and causing him to cry out from a combination of surprise and pleasure. A night for new experiences indeed . . .   
  
"You're tight," Orophin breathed in wonder, "so very tight . . . ," he slid in another finger and scissored them lightly, causing the elf under him to have to repress a squeal. "Elladan," the voice in his ear sounded vaguely concerned, but Elladan couldn't concentrate on it, "You are sure you've done this before?"   
  
"I think . . . I would know," Elladan replied breathlessly, thinking that his father's teachings on how to answer without actually saying anything were good for more than just diplomatic negotiations. Orophin seemed satisfied, becoming ambitious and adding yet another finger within only a minute or so. Surely, that couldn't be necessary, Elladan thought. How big was he anyway? He had his answer a second later, when an impossibly huge, hot length nudged his inner thigh. All right. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after . . . "By the Valar!," Elladan could barely believe it when, somehow, Orophin pierced him with one long, powerful thrust.   
  
He almost blacked out from the combination of pain--more than he'd expected--and pleasure, when Orophin nudged something within him that sent stars spiraling behind his eyelids. The Galadrim gave him no time to try to decide which was greater before beginning deep, forceful thrusts and, after a few minutes, Elladan found the pain lessening while the pleasure grew in intensity. By the time Orophin finished and collapsed hard enough against him to send both of them sprawling to the floor, Elladan had decided that maybe this new hobby offered possibilities after all. After a few, dazed moments, he began feeling around on the carpet, hoping the little bottle had survived. He finally found it caught between two wrinkles in the velvet pile beneath him.   
  
Clutching a handful of Orophin's hair, he rolled over on top of him, his warm breath tickling the Galadrim's ear as he commented, "Your turn."   
  
* * *   
  
Celeborn could not believe he'd been trapped so easily or in such a humiliating manner. Nude, he hung suspended from that evil wheel of Erestor's, as Elrond and Thranduil circled him, thoughtful expressions on their faces. Celeborn's mind was working overtime, but he could think of no way out of his current predicament. He was too proud to scream for help and be seen in such a manner by his guards, but it little mattered as this glade was too far away from the city to make rescue very likely in any case. The worse part was that he had come here on his own, although he fully realised now that he had been led by cunning, strategy, and manipulation.   
  
What he couldn't understand was his body's reaction. Elrond had said that he had used no artificial means on him, and Celeborn could see no reason why he would lie, but it seemed impossible. He was even more affected than he had been by his lovely wife's potion, and he had wondered for a heart-stopping minute if that was what Elrond and Galadriel had discussed at Imladris--perhaps the recipe for that torment in a bottle had been passed over? But no, then the ring Elrond had almost immediately fitted him with would not be needed. Besides, the potion had not caused arousal, just made it impossible for it to fade or be relieved until the effects wore off. This burning, aching need that consumed him was like nothing he had ever experienced before, but every fiber of his being called out for surcease. He wished Elrond and the king would just get on with it.  
  
"He seems a bit impatient," Thranduil said compassionately, allowing a finger to trail ever so gently around one of Celeborn's nipples. It felt like a path of fire followed his touch, so highly sensitized had Celeborn become. "We should do something to help him." Thranduil's idea of help unfortunately involved spinning him upside down and chuckling in apparent glee at the picture Celeborn made, helpless and spread out on the wheel.   
  
"Oh, I agree," Elrond replied, sounding slightly breathless as he approached. Celeborn found it impossible any longer to see the faces of his tormentors, as his eyes were roughly on a line with their shins and his hair had fallen all over his face. He could certainly feel them, however, as two very different but equally talented sets of hands began doing strange things to him. Thranduil--and the tingle that followed his touch made it unmistakably that of the king--began at one manacled ankle and slid slowly over his calf, lingered on the delicate skin behind his knee long enough to tantalize, before sliding on to his inner thigh, which he kneaded roughly.   
  
Elrond was more direct, immediately moving to fondle his testicles, caressing their velvety softness all too briefly before something that felt like leather was attached to them. Celeborn had no idea what this new sensation was, but he somehow didn't think it boded well for him. A second later and he knew it did not, as heavy weights pulled his balls away from his body, where they had drawn tight from arousal, stretching them mercilessly. "I like to start with the lighter weights," Elrond whispered in his ear, "and then move on." Celeborn could not repress a slight whimper. "Be silent!" Before he could promise to try to do so, a gag was slipped between his lips, the ball attached to it stopping any attempted sound. Celeborn couldn't understand why this was all so arousing. He didn't like this--had never liked the rougher play--but his body apparently did, as attested by the throbbing ache in his groin. The amount of blood that had rushed to his head caused a roaring in his ears but did not lessen his arousal at all, he noticed in irritation.  
  
Thranduil had grown bored with his game and moved on to a new one. Celeborn had been too distracted by what Elrond was doing to notice until a light finger slid between his cheeks, stroking his opening gently. As Celeborn comforted himself with the thought that Thranduil could hardly do anything to him in his current position, something large was pressed between his thighs. He should have known, he thought in blind fury, as he tried to move away from it. That perverse, depraved, wicked elf would just have to have a dildo with him, and by the feel of it, the biggest in Arda! This was getting out of hand. He bucked as much as he was able, but his movements were slow and uncoordinated, although whether that was due to the extreme state of his arousal or to his restraints, he could not have said. In any case, his attempts were effectively useless, other than bringing a malicious smile to Thranduil's lips. However, the king did pause momentarily, hopefully to locate some lubricant.  
  
Elrond, meanwhile, had moved on, bringing his twisted imagination into play in the form of a little rubber suction cup that he was lovingly applying all over Celeborn's skin. Wherever it rested, a mark resembling a love bite appeared. Celeborn was more concerned with the king's actions, and shifted enough hair out of his eyes that he could see the large jar he carried on his return. Unfortunately, he could also see the huge item dangling from his other hand, and began to squirm about in genuine terror. No. Absolutely not. There was no way that thing was . . .   
  
"Celeborn seems a little agitated, Elrond," Thranduil said, his tone silky as he squatted down to get a better look at him. The movement of his robes against his body allowed Celeborn to see that he wasn't the only elf with an distinct arousal in the glade that evening. Thranduil gently removed the gag, and Celeborn gasped for air for a moment before the king's lips covered his in a searing kiss. It was a little strange, to be kissed upside down, but Thranduil managed it handily. "Did you want to say something?," he inquired when he finally broke away, just as Celeborn faced asphyxiation. "Or shall I just go on with what I was doing?" Celeborn was momentarily speechless, mostly from lack of air but also from the sight of the monster toy in Thranduil's hand. "Elrond, I think Celeborn wishes to say something," Thranduil offered, and Elrond squatted before his father-in-law, pushing more silver hair out of Celeborn's eyes as he did so. Beside him on the grass he placed a tool kit with a number of finely made needles in it, ranging in size from quite small to huge. Celeborn's eyes grew big at the sight and he gasped again. Thranduil looked pleased at the sound, a feral and sensuous smile spreading over his face. Elrond, however, scowled and reached for the gag.  
  
"No!" Celeborn found his voice at last. "Release me."  
  
"An order?" Thranduil looked, if possible, even more amused. "My dearest Lord Celeborn, you are in no position to issue commands, or hadn't you noticed?" He ran a finger along the length of the dildo sticking out of the grass beside him, and Celeborn gulped audibly. He hated both of them, he really did.  
  
"It's too soon," Elrond told Thranduil, his gaze roving hungrily over the unmarked areas of his father-in-law's creamy skin. "Give me another fifteen minutes, and then we'll see."  
  
"Wait!" Celeborn stopped him as he reached once more for the hated gag. "What would you have me say?"  
  
Elrond regarded him contemptuously. "Oh, I don't know, Celeborn. What did you want to hear from me? I seem to remember something about wanting to hear me beg . . . although, I admit that my memory may be faulty. I was not exactly myself at the time, having been tortured for three days and then bewitched." His grey eyes snapped fire. "You know, Thranduil, I really think I need another fifteen minutes . . . at the very least."  
  
Thranduil laughed. "I quite agree with you, Elrond, but I find myself in a bit of a quandary. I seem to have become rather . . . excited by all this. More than I had expected, actually, and although I would dearly love to watch you play some more, I do have a somewhat pressing need of my own to satisfy."  
  
Elrond looked thoughtful, but Celeborn could tell he was tempted. "I will hardly be in the mood for much in another few minutes, Elrond," he added, hoping to swing the balance in his favour. Of course, that was a lie. In his current state, he couldn't imagine ever not being aroused again, but fortunately, Elrond didn't seem to notice the deception.   
  
"You'll have to submit," Elrond told him, "and promise that this ridiculous one-upmanship ends here. Too much more of this and none of us will be in a fit state to rule anything. Besides, I promised your wife that, if she would take over for me in Imladris for a time, I would end this. I meant what I said. One way or the other, this ends tonight."  
  
"Agreed." At that point, Celeborn would have acceded to almost anything. Apparently realising this, Elrond frowned at him. "Your word, Celeborn."  
  
"All right, you have it! Now let me go!"  
  
"Should we trust him?" Celeborn could barely believe that Elrond was asking this of Thranduil, whose word everyone in Arda knew better than to believe. However, the king came to his rescue in this case. "Oh, I think so. And if not, well," Thranduil smiled evilly, "I can always be persuaded to return for a second round."  
  
"Fine. Then I will release you," Elrond informed Celeborn, snapping his little tool case shut with a look of regret on his face, "just as soon as you beg me." Celeborn quivered with outrage, but his position hardly allowed him another course of action. Elrond just squatted there, one eyebrow arched expectantly, as he waited for his father-in-law to accept the inevitable. "Or," he commented, after a few moments of tense silence, "I could do to you what you did to me, and leave you here, alone and unfulfilled, for some of your Galadrim to find in the morning."   
  
The image this conjured up was enough to make Celeborn force himself to say the words. Anything was worth it that ended this torture and avoided a scenario like that. Elves had long memories--he would never live it down. "All right!" He gritted his teeth, but after a moment, continued. "Elrond, Thranduil, I beg you to release me."  
  
"I don't think that sounded very sincere," Elrond said thoughtfully, but it must have satisfied Thranduil, who moved immediately to loosening the restraints.  
  
"It was good enough," the king growled, as Celeborn, finally released from his fetters, collapsed bonelessly onto the cool grass. He was allowed no reprieve, however, as Thranduil's hands were immediately on him, spreading him and applying lubricant in rather excessive amounts.  
  
"I was not aware that an order of precedent had been established," Elrond noted, amusement running through his tone as Celeborn's attempts to comment dissolved into incoherent moans.  
  
Thranduil ignored him, too busy hiking up his robes and falling on top of Celeborn to reply. Celeborn suddenly found himself sandwiched between the two of them as Elrond moved under him, apparently deciding to show pity at last and remove that infernal ring. He then slowly drew Celeborn's neglected flesh into his warm mouth, and slid a practised tongue about him. At that moment, Celeborn forgave him everything. If he just kept doing that, for a year or two . . . He was so engrossed in the throes of his own passion that it barely registered when Thranduil slid fully into him, although he did pause to wonder why the king bothered with his toy. He seemed more than up to the task all on his own.   
  
Celeborn pulled Elrond up for a lengthy kiss when he was satisfied, his tongue gliding against the roof of the Peredhil's mouth as he reached down to caress his impressive erection. Thranduil distracted him momentarily, biting down on the spot where Celeborn's neck and shoulder met and thrusting harder as he angled his strokes to hit his prostate. Realising that the king intended to take his time, Celeborn resorted to a new, more pleasant type of quid pro quo to relieve his son-in-law. Elrond, as always, tasted sweet--of spices and some, indefinable sunny flavour that reminded him of miruvor--as his mouth engulfed him. Elrond grasped his shoulders, sliding along Celeborn's sweat slicked skin as he came, just as Thranduil thrust massively against him from behind in his finish. After a moment, they collapsed into a sated pile, the glade still echoing with their cries. Celeborn thought, when his mind cleared enough to allow him to do so, that, all things considered, he could get used to late night strolls like this one.  
  
TBC 


	8. Chapter Eight

Title: Wild Justice 8/?   
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer@hotmail.com  
Rating: R   
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline and my precious, evil mind.   
Feedback: Please!  
Warnings: BDSM.   
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused. Many thanks to Ithilessar, Pira, Patricia, Blue, Angilou, Greenie, Mayetra, Alex, Earl and all others who have reviewed--the fact that you are still reading (much less commenting) is greatly appreciated. Also, kudos to Circe for noticing the arrows!  
  
* * *  
  
Elrond had not slept in two days. He had been feeling edgy even before his arrival at Lorien, but had put it down to the situation with Celeborn. He had promised Galadriel to sort it all out, but the attitude of Lorien's lord would ultimately decide whether or not he could keep that promise. Finding that, as Galadriel had promised, Thranduil was more than willing to join forces on the project had been both a relief and somewhat unnerving; being allies with Thranduil on anything, even something this frivolous, took an adjustment.  
  
After their session in the glade, which had ended up taking most of the night but been very satisfactory to all concerned, Elrond assumed that the tension that had followed him about like a cloud for weeks would dissipate. In fact, the opposite was true. It was almost as if the recent upheavals in his personal life had allowed him to ignore something else, an elusive but growing anxiety that suddenly had his full attention. Yet, however much he concentrated on it, the cause of his restlessness remained just out of reach.   
  
He had finally given up trying to sleep, settling for resting instead, but there seemed to be something preventing even that. The mattresses here were as good as those at Imladris, yet he could not get comfortable; the wine he drank at bedtime to try to calm his nerves had the opposite effect; supposedly soothing nighttime noises--rain dripping off the edge of the talan, for instance--maddened him. It almost felt as though someone was trying to drive him insane, as nowhere he went could he find peace. He visited the hot baths, but as soon as he arrived he wished to be somewhere else. He sat down to eat, and was hungry, yet it was almost torture to remain in his place long enough to finish the meal.   
  
The constant restlessness was wearying, and he knew it was depleting his reserves of strength just when he needed to be at his best. He tried to tell himself to rest, eat and rejuvenate before the scouting party returned, for no one had any idea what they might bring with them. But he found it absolutely impossible to do so. He had finally requested Celeborn to provide several of his own healers to assist him, in case he could not focus enough to be of much use. When the Galadrim reported the immanent return of the scouting party with only one member in need of aid, his anxiety level should have decreased, as one patient with three healers was sure to receive more than adequate care whether he was at his best or not. Yet he looked down to see his hand shaking, just slightly, and by the speed of his pulse and the shallowness of his breathing,   
it might almost be thought that he was ill.  
  
It was not until the party actually arrived at the talan that Elrond felt it: his nervous anxiety was transformed into a crashing, thundering deluge of genuine terror. He managed to hide his emotions well enough that he did not alarm the others, and could only hope they would recede after a time. Instead, the feelings grew even stronger, vibrating through him like a bolt of lightening under his skin. As Glorfindel mounted the last of the stairs, a bundled figure in his arms, Elrond had never been so frightened in his life.   
  
* * *  
  
Gildor was extremely glad to see the Golden Wood. The trip back had seemed endless, and he had felt completely frustrated at not being able to do anything substantial for Zirak. The elf was very weak but had consented to eat only once on the journey, and then only after almost an hour of wheedling by Gildor. He needed more aid than anyone in their company could provide, and Gildor had almost cried in joy when the border party who met them assured him that Lord Elrond had been waiting for them for four days.   
  
Gildor saw the Galadrim give interested looks at the bundled figure riding before Glorfindel, but none were ill bred enough to enquire why, on a perfectly sunny day, he was muffled up as if against winter's chill. Gildor knew that Zirak's body temperature remained lower than normal, but thought the amount of swaddling Erestor had wrapped him in that morning was excessive. Still, it did have the bonus effect of preventing the Galadrim from becoming too shocked at the sight of his physical degeneration.  
  
Erestor rode beside Gildor, strangely silent as he had been ever since Zirak was found. He looked a little pale, Gildor thought, but then, they were all tired after a very hard week's work with no breaks. The party reached the outskirts of Caras Galadhon, where the horses had to be left behind, and Glorfindel easily swept Zirak into his arms; he carried him as if he was weightless, which unfortunately was not far from the truth. They proceeded in a line up the spiraling staircase of the royal talan, finally reaching the main hall where a large number of elves awaited them, including several healers.   
  
Erestor and Glorfindel exchanged a glance, then Glorfindel kept walking with his burden while Erestor posted some of Galadriel's Noldoran servants at the hallway's entrance to insure that no one followed them. Gildor and Haldir slipped by easily enough, however-- as members of the party they had, after all, already seen his injuries--while the rest of the waiting elves were turned away. It took about a minute for Gildor to wish he had been so as well.   
  
Elrond moved like an old man, jerky and abrupt, as he approached the bundle Glorfindel so carefully laid on the examination table. He stretched a trembling hand toward the hood covering Zirak's face, but then snatched it back as if burned. He squeezed his eyes closed and moaned--a low, despairing, lost sound that seemed to go on forever--then folded up and would have struck the floor if Glorfindel had not caught him.  
  
Gildor shivered involuntarily and glanced at Haldir, who looked as stunned as everyone else. The two healers surged forward, one to each of the collapsed elves, and Gildor moved also, knowing he wasn't needed but feeling strangely drawn to Zirak anyway. He had been his responsibility for the whole trip back, and he couldn't just abandon him now. So he was at Celeborn's elbow when the hood was drawn back, and the Lord of Lorien saw the face it concealed. Celeborn took one look, then staggered as if struck, putting a steadying hand to the edge of the table before he, too, ended up on the floor. Glorfindel uttered a warning, nothing coherent but apparently enough to convey some sort of meaning to Celeborn, who clamped his teeth hard on his lower lip for a long moment, then hoarsely ordered everyone from the room besides the healers, the stricken elves, himself and Glorfindel.   
  
Gildor caught Haldir's eye and nodded. He had been about to protest, as he did not want to leave Zirak alone, but his lover's expression was eloquent, and he followed him out of the room. Haldir knew his lord better than Gildor; if he thought it imprudent to argue with him it would be well to heed his warning. They passed by the guards at the door and went down the corridor a good way before stopping. "What happened in there?"  
  
Haldir shook his head. "I am not sure. But it is not wise to defy the lord when he is in that mood. We will no doubt find out soon enough."  
  
* * *  
  
Elrohir was greatly relieved to see the return of the travelers, as he desperately desired to speak with Erestor. After the disastrous attempt to deceive Thranduil, Elrohir had given the matter some more thought. He had managed to briefly pry Elladan away from his "new hobby," as he called his latest infatuation, and probed for any and all information about the king, but his brother was little help. He simply stated over and over again that Elrohir's odds of deceiving Thranduil about anything were slim to none. Elrohir had nonetheless concocted and rejected a number of plans, before finally deciding that what he really needed was expert help. Fortunately, he knew where to find an expert.   
  
Unfortunately, Erestor was not looking all that helpful at the moment; indeed, Elrohir could not remember ever seeing him this agitated. Walking down the corridor after the rest of the party, he was fussing with the high collar of his robe as if it choked him. Still, Elrohir could not wait. That brief glimpse of Glorfindel had been enough to decide the issue--he couldn't lose him to the king; he would die if he did.   
  
"Erestor?" His old mentor acted as if he hadn't heard, so Elrohir tried again. "Erestor!  
  
"What? Oh, greetings, Elrohir." Erestor still did not look at him, his eyes on the door into the healing chambers, which had just snapped closed. Two of the Noldor took up guardian positions in front of it at only a raised eyebrow from Erestor.   
  
"I need to talk to you. It's important."  
  
"Yes . . . " For some reason, Erestor seemed unwilling to enter that room. He kept staring at the door, but did not draw any nearer to it. Elrohir didn't bother to question providence, but simply towed him into an alcove. One of the Noldor, he noticed, was watching them with a funny expression on his face, but Elrohir decided to worry about that later.   
  
"It's about Glorfindel . . . and the king. I need your help."  
  
Erestor still appeared distracted, but at least he focused on Elrohir's face. "What? Oh, I wouldn't worry about that. Everything will be fine."  
  
"No. It won't." Elrohir sighed. He wondered how to explain the situation to Erestor, who had probably never known burning desire in his life. He wished for someone closer to his own age to talk to, but the only such person with whom he had any type of intimate relationship was Elladan, who had been completely useless so far. It was Erestor or no one, so he tried again. "Thranduil will try again. I have to stop him, but I don't know how. I was hoping you might have some ideas." Anything, Elrohir pleaded silently, I'll do anything, just don't patronize me and tell me everything will be fine.  
  
Erestor seemed to realise his young companion's silent agony, for he smiled reassuringly as he tucked a stray strand of hair behind Elrohir's ear. "You worry too much, young one. Thinking has its place, but it can be over done. Try going on your feelings instead."  
  
Elrohir fought the desire to scream. This was not what he needed! He had come after devious, detailed strategy, not platitudes. "I don't . . . "  
  
"Hush." Erestor placed two fingers on Elrohir's lips and smiled, with a gentle, sympathetic look that effectively quieted him. "I promise I will take care of the king for you. However, I cannot work matters out between you and Glorfindel--that must be your affair, young one, and I suggest you do it soon. Never is anyone so vulnerable as when their heart is broken."  
  
Elrohir looked at him, surprise and hope dawning on his face. Glorfindel heartbroken . . . over him? It didn't seem likely, especially with someone like Thranduil making his interest so obvious. On the other hand, Erestor was Glorfindel's oldest friend, so he should know . . . "What should I do?"  
  
Erestor just shrugged. "In these matters, young one, I think you know more about his tastes than I! Just remember, he DOES love you. Trust that, and your feelings, and you will do well."  
  
Elrohir hugged his former tutor tightly, feeling all his old affection for him come rushing back. All right, so Erestor had some . . . unusual . . . personal interests. That wasn't any of Elrohir's concern. He was a friend, and that was all that mattered. He doubted, of course, that Erestor could deal with the king as he'd said, but if all went well with Glorfindel, maybe it wouldn't matter. Elrohir hugged him again, then ran off down the corridor, feeling lighter than he had for days, and with plans to make.   
  
* * *  
  
Camthalion stood guard beside the door as he had been ordered, and watched as Erestor followed the young one down the corridor. He knew who the elfling was, of course, and although he remained as stony faced as usual, inwardly he seethed. It was not enough for this one to have so infatuated Imladris' seneschal that he would actually attack a member of the border guard--a thing simply unheard of, which had been the cause for much quiet discussion on their recent excursion--now he was openly flirting with Lord Erestor! It had taken all Camthalion's self-control to stand quietly as Erestor stroked and patted and fussed over the brat, murmuring words to him in a voice too low for him to hear, but they were words of love, no doubt, and possibly words of passion.   
  
He repressed a growl and consciously lowered his heart rate to prevent any telltale flushing of his pale skin. It had been a shock at first, back at Imladris, when he'd realised his reaction to Elrond's counselor was more than just casual admiration for courage, beauty and a jaded wit that slightly shocked Camthalion even as it enthralled him. The attraction had been almost instantaneous, a twist in his stomach, a tingle in his groin when he awoke weeks ago to that strong, masterful voice, and found that it provoked in him desire and obedience rather than outrage and anger. When Erestor strode back and forth across the attic, his open black tunic whipping about his dark leggings, his midnight eyes flashing as he berated them for causing so much trouble to his well run household, Camthalion had wanted to kneel before him and beg forgiveness. Instead, he had done what his pride and lineage demanded, and defied him, informing him in a voice, which he had been surprised to hear remain level, that he had merely obeyed the orders of his mistress and would do so again. Then he had insisted on being released.  
  
He could still feel the thrill that had coursed through him as Erestor had slowly, oh so slowly, walked over to where Cam lay trussed hand and foot alongside Elros and for some reason sopping wet. The impressions flooded back now in quick profusion, causing Camthalion to have to shut his eyes to keep them from showing: the charisma that had radiated from Erestor; the way his long fingers had stroked the leather flail he carried; how his nipples had been visible against the thin black silk of his shirt; the flash that had shown in his ebony eyes, enhanced by the sable brows that lowered to frame them, as his mouth hardened. In a few short minutes he had flailed Camthalion--with words alone--until he felt raw and aching, yet needful, too, as those wonderful eyes swept disdainfully over his form.   
  
Soon, he and Elros had found themselves kneeling, heads bent, wrists still bound behind their backs, and although Cam could tell that his cousin resented everything being done to them, he himself had never felt so stimulated. He remembered the heat of Erestor's body when he came up close behind him, explaining that they would be taught a new set of rules as they had apparently never managed to learn the old ones. His voice went on and on, caressing, authoritative, disturbing, but not so much so as the soft touch of his long, unbound hair when as a strand fell occasionally against Camthalion's flushed face. Cam's robes were chill and wet, but he felt hot, consumed by burning need and desperate desire.   
  
He had been lost from that moment, drunk on the strong, masterful, beautiful one who almost immediately became an addiction. He had tried to tell himself, as he told Elros, that it meant nothing--a quick romance that would soon be forgotten when they returned to Lorien--but he had known all the while that he lied. When he was finally allowed to tangle his fingers in Erestor's hair--long and sleek and black as the night--he marveled at its contrast with his pale skin, and knew. When he shuddered at the feel of those silken tresses soft against his back, completely unlike the hardness thrusting deep inside him, he knew. When they kissed until the entire world narrowed to that one exquisite sensation, and Erestor wrapped his legs around him, holding him with his entire body, he knew. He could not say it, especially with those impenetrable dark eyes on him, but there had never been, would never be, anyone else for him.   
  
He had defended his dynamic lover from Elros' planned revenge, once Glorfindel freed them, but had quickly learned that Erestor needed no such aid. Camthalion had never before been taught how pain could so greatly enhance pleasure, or how submission could bring such dizzying freedom, but he and Elros had absorbed the new knowledge greedily. When they dutifully followed their new master back to Lorien, they were taught even more. Camthalion had tried not to tremble when Erestor brushed against him or to become aroused merely by his voice, as he did not want to seem overly possessive and scare him away. He gave off none of the usual signals of infatuation, forcing himself not to lean towards him whenever he came near nor to lick his lips when speaking to him, and fought down the urge to rush to his side every time he discovered some new technique, like an elfling wanting approval, but it took all his concentration.   
  
He knew Erestor did not feel anything for him, other than as a favoured student, and so far he had kept his pride and his dignity by not seeking him out. But whenever he closed his eyes, he felt again those talented hands sliding over his body, those lips warm and unexpectedly soft on his, and that weight pressing him down. It was becoming more and more difficult to hold onto his icy facade, and he truly did not think he could manage it were Erestor to take the young Peredhil as a lover. Another of the Noldor would not have been so bad, for he had known them so long that they were all like brothers to him; they were everything to each other, had had to be, for the other elves regarded them as different, untrustworthy, unclean. And such a liaison would not have excluded him from Erestor's presence, any more than Elros had done. But Elrond's youngest was another matter. Camthalion stared down the hallway where Elrohir had disappeared, fiercely envying his effortless conquest of one who was far too good for him. Yes, something would have to be done.   
  
* * *  
  
As soon as he tried making the most tenuous of connections to the injured elf, white-hot fire erupted behind Elrond's eyes, and he staggered under pain such as he had never known. He neither knew nor cared when he was caught and lowered gently to the floor, for he had been drawn into another reality filled with nothing but blistering, incandescent waves of agony. It flooded his mind, ripped at his consciousness, tore at his control, until he knew nothing else but the pain, saw it as an almost living thing, possessing him, consuming him. Every nerve was fire, every breath agony, but behind the rushing, reverberating screams that filled his mind, was a voice, long unheard but never forgotten.  
  
Deep within his mind it echoed, and he could not shut it out. He could not understand it at first, but slowly, over long minutes, he wrestled back a tiny portion of his emotional control, and focused on the distant echo, consciously willing it closer. Suddenly, another presence was inside his mind; every part of his being flooded by that disembodied voice and by a spirit that felt so alien and so familiar all at once. It was as if someone, or something, long imprisoned had been set free, although was so warped and twisted by its experiences as to be almost unrecognizable.   
  
But Elrond knew it. Abruptly, he was transported back to a time before he was master of Imladris, when he had not been the wielder of vilya or a leader of the elves. When his name had not been renowned for daring deeds in battle or exceptional ability at healing. When he had been content to be known for only one thing--the beloved of a legend. His voice rough, its tone unsteady and trembling, Elrond finally uttered the name they had all been afraid to say.  
  
"Gil-Galad."  
TBC 


	9. Chapter Nine

Title: Wild Justice 9/?   
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer@hotmail.com  
Rating: R   
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline and my precious, evil mind.   
Feedback: Please!  
Warnings: BDSM.   
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused. This chapter is my contribution to the current debate on Elvish lifestyles (and plumbing!) on The Galadrim yahoo group.  
  
* * *  
  
Haldir was as fractious as he could ever remember being without cause. Of course, in truth he had a cause, just not one he could admit to anyone. He regarded his lover through slitted eyes and decided that Gildor was being deliberately cruel. The fact that he looked incredibly enticing this morning, fine dark hair escaping from his usual messy braids to frame his sculpted features, did not help. He had spent most of the previous afternoon looking after that cursed dwarf, who he insisted must see a healer regardless of the fact that she'd been with them half a week and shown no ill effects from her foolish escape. Then he wasted an entire evening finding clothes to fit her, commenting that she could hardly continue to wear his spare tunics, and then insisted on accompanying her to dinner to make sure she ate.   
  
Haldir had simply not been able to believe that Gildor was spending their first day back with the dwarf, and had become so incensed over it that he packed his belongings and moved from Gildor's guest room in the royal talan back to his own quarters. Upon arrival, however, he found Orophin and Elladan enjoying themselves in the main room, and they had continued to do so most of the night, keeping him awake as the partition walls were thin and they did not bother to attempt to be quiet. Then, on top of a very long week and a sleepless night, he had to endure Gildor's performance at breakfast, which went beyond all bounds.  
  
Haldir did not make it a habit to frequent the communal tables kept by the lord and lady. Technically, as part of the border patrol, he was free to avail himself of his lords' hospitality whenever he was in Caras Galadhon, but he disliked the needless formality of it, preferring the more boisterous company, if less elegant cuisine, available at the barracks. He had inherited his family talan, so had no reason to live with the other guards in off duty periods, but he could and often did eat with them. This morning, however, he had shown up at the royal banqueting hall to give Gildor, who as a guest of the lord and lady would certainly eat there, a chance to apologise.   
  
Unfortunately for his mood, Gildor did not seem to understand that he had done anything requiring an apology, just greeted Haldir lovingly as usual, then turned his attention back to the miserable excuse for a creature at his side, to whom he was explaining the contents of the dishes being served. Haldir sat and fumed, yet part of him could not help but admire the way the sun's rays, slanting through the high windows of the chamber, limned every feature of his lover's face with an outline of gold. Gildor didn't seemingly notice his agitation, but he must have sensed something for, innocent brown eyes still on Elwyyda as he promised to take her for a tour of the city, he began to run a warm foot under Haldir's leggings.   
  
It was all Haldir could manage to remain seated quietly across from him, and to content himself merely with a glare. He had never, in all his life since entering fenneth, been this long without physical intimacy, yet his lover was promising the whole day to that ridiculous creature instead of making plans to spend it with him, and then TEASING him with it, and in such a very effective way. Haldir shifted position, but it only made things worse, as Gildor's probing foot left his calf only to slide sensuously up his inner thigh, as a mischievous twinkle lit his eyes. By the Valar, he was laughing at him!   
  
Haldir jumped up from the table, murmured an apology to the servant behind him who he almost sent sprawling in his hurry, and fled. Oh, Gildor was going to pay for this, he thought grimly. Two could play that game, and he was better at it.  
  
* * *  
Elwyyda was having a wonderful time. The previous evening, she and Gildor had gone to the shopping district of Caras Galadhon in search of new clothes for her and a surprise for Haldir. She couldn't imagine why Gildor wanted to buy the elf a gift, for he never did anything except scowl. She personally thought Gildor needed to find a new friend, but did not know him well enough to say so. She did not want to risk annoying him by commenting on his personal life, as he was the only thing keeping her from running away again as fast as her feet could carry her.   
  
Elwyyda was extremely uncomfortable in the royal talan. Having been brought up from childhood in the mines, she felt very uncertain of herself in other surroundings. Her first night in Lorien had been a nightmare, beginning with the elf maid who brought her dinner and watched in horrified fascination as she ate. Elwyyda had known something was wrong, but could not think what that might be: she had eaten most of the strange food, much of which she did not recognize, without complaint, and had even thought to wipe her hands, which had become rather sticky because of the strange substance glazing the meat, on her tunic rather than allowing them to soil the elegant furnishings of the guest room. This had not seemed to please the maid, however, who looked at her strangely before finally taking the tray away.   
  
Her open disdain had been only the first of many shocks for Elwyyda that night. She had spent years underground in almost complete darkness, sleeping on a thin pallet wedged underneath a stone overhang in the slaves' chambers. She had preferred it that way, as it was better that the orcs not be reminded of her presence, and the shadow of the rock had effectively hidden her. Zirak had had no such refuge, being too large to fit under the small shelf, and the goblins had sometimes amused themselves torturing him just for amusement when they noticed him trying to sleep. Now Elwyyda could not feel comfortable lying on top of the large bed with only the high ceiling of the room above her. She also did not like the candles that burnt in large sconces everywhere, making the room dazzlingly bright to her eyes, but she was afraid to snuff them out as she had no permission to do so, and anyway, wasn't tall enough to reach them.  
  
The food and sleeping arrangements had been of small import, however, next to the lecture she received from the outraged servant who discovered that she had relieved herself in a large bucket in which a small tree was planted. It was a pretty bucket, made of molded bronze, but she could not see that she had harmed it, and at least she had not used the floor. She had thought about tipping its contents off the edge of the talan, but had been afraid to hit someone below with it and the tree made it too heavy to lift. In the mines, she had always known what to do. Slaves had a cave that was used for such things, and garbage was dumped there as well, into a crevasse that cut so far into the earth that no one knew how far down it went. But there was no such cave or room here, at least not that she had seen, and she had been in extreme discomfort . . . Nonetheless, apparently it had been the wrong thing to do, as the elf had taken the bucket away after scolding her in broken Westron that she was glad she could not fully understand.  
  
She had seen reflected in the eyes of all those about her nothing but disgust. That was true especially of Haldir, who had fixed her hair at Gildor's insistence, but made it obvious that he did not like touching her. She had not seen those emotions in Gildor's eyes, but he was the only one who could seem to tolerate being around her. At the first opportunity, then, she had run away, and, once recaptured, had shuddered at the thought of returning to the great elvin city. She had hated the mines, but at least she fit in there. There was no place for someone like her in this perfect world of theirs.   
  
Gildor asked, once they found her again, why she had left, and reminded her of his promise not to let anything happen to her. Elwyyda had not been able to answer his question--she did not have the words, and it made her uncomfortable to think that he would afterwards think less of her. Somehow, though, he seemed to have guessed, because he was now making every effort to help her fit in. He brought the strange tools used for eating to her room and showed her how to use them before they went to dinner, then stayed by her side while she ate, helping to correct her so subtly that no one even seemed to notice. She did not mind eating in the hall, even surrounded by so many beautiful creatures, if Gildor was with her. She thought she had done fairly well, only dropping things a few times, and she'd remembered to use her napkin instead of her tunic to clean her hands. The tools made eating less messy, she had to agree, but she still thought them a bit silly, as they took much more time than just using hands.   
  
Gildor had also shown her about the royal talan, a multi-story edifice supported by the largest tree Elwyyda had ever seen. The floors were paved, with some inlaid with tiny bits of coloured glass and stone made into amazing designs; in one room, it looked like the floor was covered by a forest of leaves, but none of them were real. Weavings in cool shades of blue and pale green covered many walls, providing decoration and an extra layer of warmth not given by the reed screens. The details were astonishing: niches casually set into walls, holding alabaster urns filled with silken flowers so well made as to convince Elwyyda that they must have scent; gossamer hangings were everywhere, looking beautiful on their own, but when the light shone through them, whole scenes were revealed to be woven into the fabric; carved inscriptions ran around the top of the walls, so high that, she supposed, only elvin eyes could make them out. Gildor told her that, taken together, they told the story of the founding of Lorien. Elwyyda had not taken the time to notice these details before, and they delighted her now.  
  
Gildor also showed her the area beside the baths where the elves relieved themselves. There was a place like it in her quarters, but she had not even noticed the little room, or the container that flushed with clear water. It ran out, Gildor said, into pipes painted to look like the bark of the trees onto which the talans were built, and was carried away to fields beyond the city where it fertilized the fallow ground. Every few months, the field so used was changed, and when the old fields were planted with crops again, the soil was very rich. Elwydda had looked at him doubtfully, "But wouldn't it be easier just to use a bucket?" For some reason, Gildor found this very funny. She liked the fact that other pipes brought clean water into her rooms, though. It meant that she could bathe whenever she liked, as the water was pumped from underground springs that seemed to be inexhaustible. She had never had the luxury of being clean before, and this was one new experience she thought she could learn to like.  
  
Gildor had then taken her to find clothes that fit properly and, although she couldn't understand what was wrong with the tunic he had already given her--it was quite the nicest garment she had ever had--he seemed to think she would feel better in clothes of her own. They had climbed down to ground level as the shops, Gildor explained, were almost all located there. "It would be too difficult to keep lifting new stock up into the trees," he told her. "The Galadrim live in the heights, but they do much of their daily activities on the ground." Elwyyda was pleased to hear this, as the high rope ladders, seemingly so thin and frail, made her nervous, especially in winds such as those that tugged at Gildor's cloak and ruffled his hair. But Gildor assured her that he had never known one to break.   
  
The weavers had their shops all together, on a small street paved with smooth white stones. Their houses reminded her of the talans, for they were made of the same material--thick reed screens stretched over a wood frame--and were strung with strings of small lanterns that swayed in the evening breeze like the ladders did above. They entered one of the first of the little shops only to find it stacked floor to ceiling with bolts of all types of cloth, with some even tucked into the wooden rafters overhead. A placid looking young elf sat in front of a large loom, working on a piece of material unlike anything Elwyyda had ever seen. She had to touch it to believe it was cloth, for it looked like nothing so much as a huge golden mallyrn leaf, complete with veining and spots of light green and brown in places, that had somehow been strung onto the loom. She vaguely remembered her mother weaving, in the years before they were captured and taken to the mountain, but she had never made anything like this.   
  
Gildor spoke in the pretty elvish language to the young shopkeeper, who looked up from his work when they arrived. Elwyyda would have been nervous, for they were no doubt discussing her, except that she was too busy marveling at the fabrics so casually lying about. Every colour of the rainbow was represented, and each bolt seemed more beautiful than the one before. She had to put her hands behind her back, otherwise she would have no doubt embarrassed Gildor by running her hands all over them. But they did yearn to be touched, those soft fabrics the names of which she didn't know . . .  
  
Gildor purchased something while she wasn't watching, and before she knew it, they were off again, this time taking a short walk down the street to where a house, almost completely overgrown by a flowering vine, stood near a large fountain. They entered to find two smiling female elves chatting with each other as they plied their needles so quickly that their hands were a mere blur. They looked up as Gildor entered and spotted Elwyyda, peeking out from behind him, almost at once. They gave a cry and descended on her in what would have been a frightening way except that both were smiling delightedly. She found herself being measured by expert hands, and then Gildor's package was handed over and they were pushed out the door. It had taken maybe two minutes.   
  
Gildor laughed to see her expression. "They're always like that. Don't worry--you just made them very happy. They've wanted to try out some new designs for a while now, and you've provided them with the excuse!" Gildor then took her on a brief tour of the area while he explained the layout of the city, which was roughly in a large cross formation with the royal talan at the center. "Just keep going uphill if you ever get lost, and you'll run right into it," he explained. Elwyyda didn't bother to tell him that she had no intention of venturing out without him.  
  
They returned to the tailors' after what seemed like far too short a time to Elwyyda, but nonetheless a perfect little kirtle and matching shirt were waiting for her, and wonder of wonders, it was of a piece of material that looked almost identical to that on the weaver's loom. This one was more green than gold, however, and had carved wooden buttons on the shirt that looked like tiny ladybugs. The clothes fit perfectly, and Elwyyda proudly wore them out into the darkening twilight. "We'll get you shoes and other things tomorrow," Gildor assured her. "Other than for the taverns, the shops all close at night. I have to pick up a few things myself tomorrow, though, so if you're free, we'll go shopping again."  
  
Gildor had kept his promise, and as soon as breakfast was over they proceeded to another part of the city where different sorts of shops were located. Their first stop was a bone and antler carver's shop, where Elwyyda was again entranced at the fine workmanship on the wares. One long wall held nothing but knives, their hilts of etched bone worked in runes and symbols she could not read; another wall was taken up with horn drinking vessels of all shapes and sizes, their rims carved to look like braids, their bodies showing scenes from elvish lore. The shop had a festive air about it, for a profusion of lanterns hung from the rafters, their bodies of carved wood but their side panels of thin cut horn giving off a warm amber light when lit. She examined with delight a small display of horn combs, buttons and cloak toggles as Gildor waited to pick up his order. It was amazing that the Lorien carver, a kindly looking female with elaborate golden braids, could make the hard bone look so much like the petals of a living flower.   
  
The shop owner brought out a package from a small back room that must have contained her workshop, and unwrapped its linen covering. It contained an exquisite set of ivory chess pieces carved to look like an elvin army. There was only one set, although Gildor assured Elwyyda that the other pieces were waiting at their next stop. It turned out to be a woodworker's shop where Gildor picked up a polished playing board to go with the pieces, made of contrasting squares of rosewood and oak. He also claimed the other half of his army, which was of rosewood and carved differently from the other set--Gildor had designed the figures himself, giving sketches to each carver to use as a guide, along with size specifications. It was truly a unique gift, Elwyyda thought admiringly, too bad it was for that Haldir. All of a sudden, Elwyyda found herself in possession of the set, which Gildor quickly threw his cloak over. She understood why when she saw Haldir's head outside the shop door, and the next moment he was peering into the gloom of the interior.   
  
* * *  
  
Haldir had been tracking them for some time, and finally caught up with them at the woodworker's shop. What in Arda did the dwarf need in there? She was looking decidedly furtive, and attempting to hide something under her cloak. A cloak that looked to be much too long for her--it had to be Gildor's. So what could he possibly have bought for her that she didn't wish Haldir to see? Curiosity, always Haldir's failing, caused him to momentarily forget his original plan to seduce his beloved away from that creature. Instead, he attempted to sidle around to where he could "accidentally" knock the cloak off her arm and perhaps catch a glimpse of what lay beneath. But it was no good, for the nimble little thing slipped right past him and out the door, and Gildor took the opportunity to trap him next to a display case.  
  
"Aren't these incredible?" Gildor asked, staring with apparent rapt interest at the case's contents. Haldir had no idea what it contained, for the same moment Gildor, who was standing slightly behind him, nudged his knee between Haldir's thighs, audaciously pressing their bodies together. As always whenever Gildor stepped within a foot of him, Haldir's nerve endings all woke up and began to hum. It was almost tangible, this connection between them, which was not lessened when Gildor began to move, very slightly against him, all the while commenting on whatever-it-was in the case. Haldir was soon reduced to a semi-delirious, quivering puddle of arousal. He couldn't understand how Gildor managed to do this to him, and so effortlessly, when he'd always been able to control his reactions around others. It had something to do with the innocent pleasure Gildor evidenced in every thing they did, making each encounter unique, exotic and so very alluring . . .   
  
Haldir was about to suggest, as soon as he was capable of speech once more, that they continue this somewhere more appropriate, but suddenly, Gildor was gone. Haldir turned to see his lover walking down the street away from the shop, sunlight on his dark hair, sleek muscles sliding under his short tunic. Haldir finally found out what was in the display case--a collection of combs--as it was some minutes before he was in any position to leave the shop.   
  
* * *  
  
Their next stop was a music store containing a variety of instruments: horns, trumpets, whistles, bells, and drums of all types hung about the walls. A harmonious background sound came from the shop owner's tuning of a lute of polished wood, which had mother of pearl inlay in the form of musical notations on the front. An entire counter was covered in boxes of musical scrolls. While Gildor browsed through the latest compositions, Elwydda wandered through a connecting door into a leather worker's shop where the elf in charge immediately began measuring her for shoes. Elwyyda was frantic, not knowing if this was what Gildor wanted or not, but he poked his head in the door a few seconds later and smiled to see the hides the leatherworker was showing her. Elwyyda liked the elves she met in the shops better than the servants in the royal talan. Like the tailors the night before, the leatherworker seemed fascinated at the challenge of making something that would fit her. Elwyyda didn't really see the point of shoes, as her feet were as tough as leather themselves from years carrying heavy loads over rough stone floors, but Gildor insisted and she soon found herself in possession of both a stout pair of boots and a soft pair of slippers.   
  
Gildor indulged her by allowing her time to browse through the displayed items at a jewelry shop they passed, where amber and smoky topaz armlets gleamed on a peach coloured cloth, and at a glass blower's, where a clever elf was adding a decorative line of liquid blue to the outside of a fragile frosted wine glass. It was almost time for lunch, however, so she could only glance at the wares sitting outside a potter's establishment, and at the beautifully made weapons stacked beside a metal worker's house. Elwydda thought she could have spent all day just looking, but her stomach was rumbling by the time they reached the tavern where Gildor assured her they would get a good, if somewhat late, lunch. It was actually beyond the city walls, overlooking a small stream, and a water wheel turned beside the covered wooden porch where they were seated, slowly grinding grain from the surrounding fields into flour for the excellent bread served with their meal.   
  
Again Elwyyda was startled by the variety of food available. The menu, which Gildor read to her, was printed in a curling elvish script on the side of the tavern wall. It included all sorts of roast meats--red deer, lamb, goose, wood pigeon, black grouse, golden plover, pork and rabbit--some of which could be seen through the door of the tavern, cooking on spits over a huge fireplace made of the same white stones that formed the streets. Somewhere they had an oven, too, for Elwyyda could smell bread baking. Gildor paused as they settled themselves at a long wooden table to wave at several elves fishing in the stream a little way downriver. Some of their contributions might have been available for ordering, as fish of all descriptions were featured prominently on the menu. Gildor read her many varieties, the fresh ones including pike, bream and perch, with salted ones also available from the sea far away. Other offerings were vegetable soups filled with carrots, parsnips, turnips, spinach, cabbage and potatoes; and fruits such as she had never seen, available plain or baked into a custard or pie and topped off with hazelnuts and walnuts.   
  
Elwyyda let Gildor choose their lunch, as all they had had to eat in the mines was a coarse type of bread and whatever they could dig out of the garbage in the refuse room before it began to rot and was dumped into the ravine. As that was the remains of the goblin's food, it had rarely been cooked--they preferred meat raw--and was of dubious origin. Elwyyda therefore ate her soup and thick soft bread with butter and cheese gratefully, but was scandalized at the waste when Gildor threw the remains of his lunch to some geese in the stream below. He just laughed at her, and scooped her up to ride on his shoulder back to the city, for the beer that was served with lunch had made her sleepy and it was a long way to climb uphill.   
  
She was glad she had accepted his offer, as her new vantage point allowed her to see all the wares for sale in the large open-air market situated near the city walls, through which they passed on their way back. Stalls sold all types of cheeses, made into fat rounds that piled one on top of each other in golden hills, fresh meat and meat pastries, bee's wax candles, mountains of multicoloured soaps, fine woolen rugs heaped under a large tent, and so many other things it made her head spin to think of them all. She was almost glad when they returned to the talan and she was able to get some sleep, as the day's experiences had been exhilarating but exhausting.  
  
* * *   
  
Haldir watched through narrowed eyes as Gildor hiked back to the talan, carrying that infernal, ever present, bothersome creature with him, cradled against one shoulder as if she was made of glass and might break if not handled carefully. Haldir really thought he could have lived with it, in time, had Gildor decided to throw him over for some other elf, but to make it clear that he preferred to spend his time with such a creature . . . it was more than could be borne. He waited until Gildor had taken her to her room before confronting him, however, as he did not wish an audience for the conversation he planned to have.  
  
"Gildor." He watched as his one time lover carefully shut the door to Elwyyda's room, and turned to face him, a stunning smile breaking out over his face.   
  
"Wonderful! And I thought I would have to go looking for you." Before Haldir could say a word, Gildor backed him into the corridor wall and, heedless of anyone who might happen by, kissed him passionately. His lips were petal-soft as always, but hungrily insistent, and he tasted of honey and spices and all good things . . . "I don't have everything ready yet, so you'll have to wait," Gildor commented enigmatically, bright eyed and laughing when he finally released him. "Come to our room in an hour," and he was gone, again leaving Haldir breathless and awed behind him.   
  
* * *  
  
Gildor looked about the room and wondered if everything was all right. Haldir was an incredibly sensual, sensitive person and on this of all days, he could not disappoint him. He had tidied up, but caught sight of a lone shoe sticking out from under the bed, which he hastily kicked out of sight. He took the tall tapers off the table, afraid that they would catch the flowers on fire, then reconsidered and returned them. His hand shook slightly as he lit them, and he had to almost forcibly restrain himself from checking his appearance in the mirror yet again. He was already attired in the new tunic he had picked up at the tailor's when getting Elwyyda's garments, and he stroked a hand down it lovingly. He wondered if Haldir would remember . . . He shook his head, tried to stop grinning, failed, and gave it up. He was nervous and happy and almost deliriously excited . . . he straightened an edge of a napkin on the elegant table for two near the balcony to give himself something to do, then jumped at a knock on the door. That couldn't be dinner already--it would get cold!   
  
When Gildor opened the door, he was surprised to see Haldir standing there, looking uncertain, with ill-concealed inner turmoil showing in his eyes. "Haldir, why did you knock?" Gildor towed him inside and had to remind himself to keep his hands off him until they had had their celebration, but oh how difficult it was! Haldir was taking in the table, with its huge bouquet, cheerily burning tapers and sparkling settings, and the gaily-wrapped package Gildor held out to him. "You didn't think I would forget, did you?"  
  
Haldir looked bemused, but took the gift. He merely regarded it for a moment, one finger stroking the soft paper of the wrapping but not attempting to open it, before he looked back at Gildor, his eyes running over the deep orange of the silky tunic he wore. "But that can't be . . . "  
  
"It's a replica," Gildor told him, feeling suddenly shy. "I wore the old one until it was nothing more than a rag, but I remembered every line of embroidery, every animal . . . I think I almost memorized it!" He laughed, thinking regretfully back on all those long nights, curled up with only the tattered remnants of Haldir's gift to remember him by. If only he hadn't waited so long to approach him once more! It had surprised the tailors when Gildor insisted, as soon as he returned with Haldir to Lorien two weeks ago, on their following his diagrams exactly, even when they pointed out to him ways in which the design might be improved. He had merely smiled, "No, it's perfect the way it is." And seeing Haldir's expression, he knew that he had been right. He was just glad that they had made it back to Lorien before tonight--he would have hated to spend this of all evenings somewhere on the road, sleeping on the ground amidst too many companions.  
  
Another knock interrupted and Gildor let in the happily smiling elves with the dinner he had chosen so carefully that morning with the cook. They were efficient, and soon had the small table piled high with all Haldir's favourite delicacies, but it seemed to Gildor that they did not move nearly quickly enough.   
  
"Open your gift." Gildor demanded eagerly, when the servants had finally arranged things to their liking and departed. Haldir just continued to stand there, however, looking completely nonplussed.   
  
"This is where you were all day? Making these arrangements?"  
  
Gildor smiled as he opened the wine. Thranduil was going to howl when he discovered this was gone. It was, the wine steward had informed him last night, the very last of the Berdruskan dark, and a particularly fine year at that. No matter, it was Haldir's favourite, and tonight everything was going to go as planned for a change. "It was a bit rushed, getting everything ready--I didn't think we would be away so long."  
  
Haldir still wasn't opening his gift, but just stood there, blinking at it. Gildor handed him a glass and took the package from him impatiently. "Drink that, and I'LL open it. I'm dying for you to see them--I designed them myself." Gildor had always loved to sketch things, a talent which came in handy for making maps of new regions for Lord Elrond, but this was the first time he had tried to use his talent to create something artistic, and he truly hoped Haldir would like it. He couldn't give him anything to compare with the riches his lover already had, so designing him something that he could not buy had been the only possible option. Especially for a night as important as this.   
  
Gildor presented the closed, polished wood case to Haldir. His lover sat his untouched wine glass down and accepted the box as reverentially as if it had been carved of mithril. Opening it slowly, his expression did not change as he took one of the small, carved pieces into his hands. The ivory players were elves, their armor an exact duplicate of that worn in the Last Alliance. The wooden pieces were, however, Gildor's favourites, and he was surprised that they didn't elicit at least a small smile from Haldir. Tiny crystals glowed in the eyes of the miniature dragons, their scales, teeny horns and even the miniscule veins in their wings were all perfectly rendered. The pawns were dragons still in the egg, just their long snouts sticking out, whereas the other pieces showed them in different stages of growth and activity. Gildor had thought only to remind Haldir of their early adventure together, but seeing no expression, at least none that he could name, cross those handsome features, he began to worry.   
  
What if Haldir took it the wrong way, and thought Gildor was trying to remind him of something else entirely? Gildor suddenly felt extremely gauche, having never contemplated how his sensitive lover might interpret the gesture. He wanted to say something, do something, to make things better, but fear clutched at him and made it impossible. Oh, how could he have been so stupid, and he had actually been looking forward to Haldir's reaction!  
  
* * *  
  
"I don't deserve you." Haldir looked lovingly into Gildor's eyes, where dark anxiety was soon replaced by that beautiful light he loved. Warm arms moved to twine behind his neck and tugged him across the few inches that separated them, into a soft kiss. Gildor's capacity for forgiveness and love never ceased to astonish him. "It's perfect."  
  
Gildor smiled, eyes liquid as he tightened the embrace. "Happy anniversary, Haldir."  
  
TBC 


	10. Chapter Ten

Title: Wild Justice 10/?   
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer@hotmail.com  
Rating: R   
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline and my precious, evil mind.   
Feedback: Please!  
Warnings: BDSM.   
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused. Love comes in many flavours--the last chapter was a nice, soothing vanilla; be warned--this one isn't.  
  
* * *  
  
"Ah. I thought I might find you here, Cam."  
  
Elrohir paused at the entrance of his chambers, surprised to hear his companion addressing an apparently empty room; then he noticed one of the Noldor crouched behind his door. He looked between the two of them, wondering why Camthalion would be seeking Erestor in his rooms, of all places. Elrohir had caught up with his old tutor after dinner, wanting to discuss his plans for Glorfindel, and they had walked back to his suite together. But Camthalion could not have known that would be the case, could he?   
  
Erestor smiled, a little oddly Elrohir thought, as Camthalion stood. "You have five minutes, beginning now," he informed him. Yet, strangely, Camthalion did not wait to speak to Erestor, but exited the room swiftly, after only a minute hesitation. Perhaps, Elrohir thought, he had decided he needed more time than that with him.   
  
"What was that all about?" Elrohir watched, confused, as Erestor casually picked something off the floor and tucked it into a pocket in his robes.  
  
"Oh, nothing, Elrohir. Glorfindel will be back soon. Don't you have preparations to make? By the way, I will be . . . otherwise occupied . . . this evening. So I shall wish you success and good fortune now."  
  
"Thank you." Elrohir hoped, he really did, that this was going to work. He was so caught up in his thoughts that he hardly noticed when Erestor disappeared, merging into the shadows of the corridor without a sound.  
  
* * *  
  
Camthalion felt his blood throbbing in his ears as he ran, full out and heedless of the danger, pounding through the forest as easily as if it had been day. Despite the fact that Lorien was never completely dark, away from the lanterns of the city it could be quite dim at night, but that little mattered to one who knew these paths as well as he. Normally, Camthalion never ran--it was unnecessary and undignified, and why would he need to do so in the course of his usual duties? But tonight, he pelted through the underbrush until his heart felt as if it would seize up in his chest, until he was certain that he had traveled so far that Lord Erestor could not possibly find him. Then, finally, he stopped, leaning against a tree, breathing hard, and wondering just how far he had come.  
  
He listened, after he quieted his breathing enough to allow him to do so, but heard no sound of following footsteps. He waited, but minutes passed and still there was nothing. Camthalion knew he should feel comforted, but he did not; instead, the bright glow that had suffused him--partly fear, partly excitement--at the thought of what price might be exacted for his actions, faded, leaving him cold and alone.  
  
He wondered what to do. The logical thing, of course, would simply be to go back, as there was nothing that could be proved against him. Nothing had happened to the young Peredhil, after all. Camthalion wondered in grim amusement what exactly he would have done had Erestor not interfered. He was no kin slayer, no matter what others whispered, and would not become one now. It had seemed reasonable that Erestor would take the opportunity to spend the night with his young lover, however, and Cam had waited for him, in the hopes, he now realised, that he would be caught. And not only to keep him from his vague plan of kidnapping the elfling--for what would he have done with him once he had him? Keep him perpetually confined? And if so, where? And how would that have won him what he desired?   
  
No, Camthalion thought, facing the truth with more equanimity than he would have thought possible, he had WANTED to be stopped; more, he had wanted to be punished. Still did want it in fact, he acknowledged ruefully. Erestor brought out something in him that, until they met, he had never recognised in himself. Their times together were exhilarating; the pain, the fear, the subjugation, led to a rush to his head and throughout his body that he could not explain. It was almost like being in battle, only better, more intense somehow. And the feeling after the excitement faded was immensely pleasurable in itself; he had felt happier, more loved, and more secure in Erestor's company than anywhere else he had ever known. True punishment was being denied his drug of choice as he had been this past week. True pain was to think that he would never feel that way again.   
  
He resigned himself to returning to the city, something that would, at a normal pace, probably take several hours or more, and then he heard it. It was faint and far off, but Camthalion knew the usual sounds of the forest at night, and could differentiate the songs of the trees and the wind from . . . others. As the slight rustling came closer, he permitted himself a small hope. His brain tried to argue that it was probably only an elf on a late walk, but why would anyone be out this far, and in this direction? There were no homes here, no farms, no attraction to tempt a wanderer away from the city. But, as the sounds grew closer, he knew they were without question the footsteps of an elf, and one not bothering to conceal his approach.   
  
Camthalion could not speak as Erestor, still dressed in his evening robes of glittering black velvet, stepped into view, awful in his beauty. He had something in his hand, and a glance told Camthalion what it was--the rope he had dropped in Elrohir's quarters. He wondered now if that, too, had been on purpose. It was strange, this feeling that his own mind was conspiring against him.  
  
They exchanged no words, but none were needed. He knew what Erestor wanted, it was clear in the dark eyes, in the proud tilt of his chin, and in the slight smile that lifted the corners of his mouth when he saw the elf before him remain standing, eyes and head unbowed. The challenge was issued and accepted, silently. Camthalion didn't know what rash impulse was prompting this, but he found that he really didn't care. The old feeling was coming back, a faint tingle now, but soon, he knew, it would be roaring through his veins. Erestor had taught him that, along with so many other things.  
  
His master wore black gloves, Cam noted, for no reason that he could see, as the night was not that chilly. He suddenly felt his own palms sweat, but almost a paralysis kept him from moving as Erestor walked forward. He was so casual, that Cam never saw it coming. Or maybe he did, but that part of him, that daredevil, adrenaline-loving, risk taking aspect of him that wanted--needed--this, didn't care. It was over before he realised it, and he found his wrists bound with his own rope. He stood quietly as the line was tossed over the tree limb above him, then tied off. Nothing was hurried--indeed, Erestor's movements were almost leisurely--yet he could not resist. Part of him wanted to fight against what he knew would happen, but instead he stood still, watching with almost detached interest as his master pulled a knife out of his belt and caressed the blade.   
  
* * *  
  
"A bonding? Already?" The king seemed bemused. "Don't you feel that is a   
trifle . . . precipitate?" Thranduil was a vision that evening, the rich, antique gold of the twisted torque he wore almost exactly matching the velvet of his robes, the fire's light helping to gild him from head to foot. This was never going to work, Elladan thought weakly.  
  
"No," Elladan pulled Orophin closer against him, keeping a firm arm about his waist. "We don't think it is too soon at all." Orophin's arm tightened about his shoulders, and Elladan took comfort from the gesture. "We are both past our majority and free to choose, and we choose each other."  
  
Thranduil regarded them over the edge of his wine glass, his emerald eyes slightly narrowed in what Elladan hoped was not suspicion. "Then I wish you well, although I must wonder why you come to me with this. Is your own sire not here?"  
  
"Y-yes, of course." Elladan took a steadying breath, then continued. "But father is . . . preoccupied . . . as you know, and very weak. Healing injuries of that magnitude takes a great deal of strength, and I do not wish to add this to the other burdens he carries. Who can say how long it may be before he can once more concern himself with such things?"  
  
"Your grandsire then," Thranduil waved a lazy hand, its emerald signet catching the light. "Cannot Celeborn perform this ceremony for you?"  
  
"No, your majesty," Orophin broke in smoothly, for which Elladan could have kissed him. "My own sire passed beyond the sea many cycles ago, along with my mother. Lord Celeborn has been kind enough to say that he will stand by me in father's place at the bonding, and he cannot fulfill two roles."  
  
"So you wish me to do it."   
  
Elladan nodded, hoping that he gave off the proper impression of an eager young lover. "You did foster me for a short time, your majesty, so it does seem appropriate. And your rank being what it is . . . it would be a compliment to our house, to have you perform our bond."  
  
Thranduil smiled, and lifted his glass slightly as if in salute, although Elladan had no idea what he was complimenting. "Very well, my dear Elladan. I will be most honoured to officiate at the bonding. Indeed, I feel quite flattered."  
  
Elladan smiled, a little feebly, as the firelight danced in Thranduil's amused eyes. For some reason, he had the feeling that Elrohir was in for it again, and he along with him.  
  
* * *  
  
Erestor admired the way his knife caught the moonlight, then allowed himself the luxury of insuring that he cut Camthalion's clothes off slowly, following along the seams so they could be easily repaired. He could afford such generosity, for tonight there was no pressure of duties to perform or problems to solve. He had all the time he wanted, and he intended to fully enjoy it. As the last piece of cloth fell to the grass he kicked it aside, not wanting to see it stained. Blood was so very hard to wash out, especially of fine fabric.  
  
Erestor paused, listening to Camthalion's suddenly laboured breathing. The elf almost vibrated with need. Indulging himself momentarily, for after all, there was time, Erestor slid a hand down the heaving torso before him and fondled Cam's erection roughly, twisting his balls as he did so, smiling when he heard him moan. Oh yes, Camthalion wanted this, had wanted it for days, but not nearly as badly as Erestor wished to give it to him. So responsive, this one, and so unusual; Cam trembled at a glance but withstood beatings that would kill a human without complaint. A rare and precious find.  
  
Erestor tossed aside his cloak and stepped back, unhooking his whip from his belt. A flick of his wrist sent the strap slicing through the air, to land almost gently against the perfect skin of his captive's back. He smiled to see the annoyance in Cam's eyes at its mildness. The next stroke was heavier, the sweet sound of its snap and thud echoing around the glade, and it left a welt behind that looked almost black against the pale, Ithil-kissed flesh. Camthalion leaned into the blows that followed, and they soon criss-crossed his back and sides with a tracery of thick weals. When Erestor moved on to similarly decorate his stomach, Cam trembled slightly, but still did not cry out. That did not surprise--it was too soon, and he had only begun to warm up.   
  
Removing a flask from his cloak pocket, Erestor paused to admire the abused torso in front of him before pouring some of the liquid into his leather-covered palm. He doubted Cam was experienced enough yet to understand just why he was wearing gloves, so this night would serve two purposes--pleasure, and an addition to his education. Erestor briefly pinched the tightly furled nipples before allowing the burning oil to slowly trickle over the raw flesh on Cam's chest, cherishing the bone deep shudders that his subject was powerless to hide. He must be on fire with pain by now, yet still he did not cry out. Oh yes, this one begged to be pushed, to discover his true limits.   
  
Erestor returned to his cloak and removed the thick coils of his cat. He rarely had the opportunity to use it, as there were so few who appreciated its kiss, but he had the feeling that this might be such a one. Camthalion did not disappoint, bracing his legs as well as he could in his stretched position, tensing his buttocks as he waited patiently for this next stage in his training. Erestor had been called an artist with the lash, capable of finding the perfect spot time after time, building a hypnotic cadence until his subjects screamed with the gratification it brought. He was especially careful now, insuring that the stinging bites were perfectly placed to send his subject soaring into sensual, beautiful pain. Camthalion began to hiss, the breath forced through clenched teeth, as repeated blows lacerated his already battered back and left new weals on his buttocks and legs.  
  
Erestor pushed him more than he usually allowed himself, more than he could have done with anyone at Imladris, who played the game but always, always stopped short. They did not understand the release that came only with time, the all-consuming tide of pleasure that was the reward and the aftermath of great pain. He often wondered why his playmates at Imladris bothered--for they never achieved that kind of release, would not go on after they began to gasp and jerk away form the blows, ending the dance just when it was truly about to begin. No, they didn't understand. They were children playing at being "bad," searching for some new thrill to enliven their dull routine, but missing the artistry of the sport, at which they would never have the courage to become anything more than amateurs. But this one, oh, this one. He might be different.   
  
* * *  
  
"Thranduil agreed, Elrohir, but I really think you should . . . " Elladan paused, halfway through the door of his brother's rooms. "What the . . . ."  
  
Orophin, from behind him, gave a low whistle. Elrohir scowled at them both, turning from the mirror where he had been finishing his final braid. "Why are you two here? I told you he'd fall for it, didn't I?" Seeing that they were still standing in the middle of his rooms, mouths agape and looking quite foolish, Elrohir gave a sigh. Really, and to think he had to rely on such help! "Don't you have somewhere else you need to be?"  
  
Elladan said nothing, just began to walk around him, eyes wide in amazement. "You look . . . good . . . brother," he finally managed to say.   
  
Elrohir preened slightly under his brother's admiration--a rare enough thing to be sure--but it did not greatly mollify him. "You have to go--now. He'll be here soon and you'll spoil the mood."   
  
Elrohir watched as Elladan's eyes took in the room, and Orophin suddenly laughed. "He doesn't stand a chance! You don't do things by halves, do you?"  
  
"Will you two just leave?" Elrohir finally lost patience and literally shoved them out the door. "Go! Find something else to do!"  
  
"It might be more instructional to stay here," Orophin replied, with a distinct leer.  
  
Elrohir glared at him, then turned his best, pleading gaze on his brother. "Elladan, please?"  
  
The two in the hall exchanged a glance. "If you insist brother," Elladan murmured. "Come, Orophin, let us go . . . find something else to do, as my brother suggests."  
  
Finally, Elrohir thought, closing the door on them gratefully. Now, to business.   
  
* * *  
  
Camthalion was flying so high on the sensations pulsing through his veins that he almost didn't realise it when the scourging ended. His first indication that something had changed was the water, cool and clear and unlaced with anything, that poured over his heated skin. So hypersensitive had the beating made him that even this was tortuous. It was followed by a gentle touch along his stinging back, as slender, strong hands traced the network of cuts, welts, and bruises marring his flesh. He bit his lip, his teeth tearing deeply into the skin, as he clenched his eyes shut and fought not to scream. Somehow, the gentle caress was almost worse than the whipping, forcing him back into himself, insuring that he felt every line, every mark, before moving downward to briefly tease his sac. Camthalion groaned aloud then, the combination of pain and pleasure so strong as to almost overwhelm, and he craved more, so much more . . .   
  
Erestor's exploration went on and on, his feather light touch its own form of torment, and he missed nothing--delicately exploring Cam's hands, arms, legs, and feet, occasionally pinching without warning, but mostly barely touching him, cataloguing his reactions. Cam wanted to scream then, wanted to beg him to do something, anything, but just stop this gentle torment, but he bit down harder and remained silent. Erestor finally finished his inspection, standing close enough to Cam that he could feel his breath on his torn lips, and the warmth that radiated from his body.   
  
"I love your silence, and I hate it," Erestor murmured, rolling a bruised nipple between his fingers. "Tell me," he said lightly, trailing the coils of the whip along Cam's back, the roughness of it grating his skin, "what would it take for you to lose control? To make you scream?" Cam thought about telling him--he was truly tempted, but some instinct, perhaps the same one that had brought him here, held him back. "Still so silent?" Cam wondered if it was his imagination, or if Erestor really did sound pleased as he stroked a thumb over Cam's swollen lower lip, raw sensuality in his voice. Yes, he had liked it. Suddenly Cam understood--Erestor preferred him defiant, he actually enjoyed the challenge. Slowly, he raised his eyes to his master's face, saw how his breath came quickly through the red, parted lips, and how his eyes were almost glazed behind his long lashes. He swallowed thickly, knowing in that second that he loved his master, loved him more than life itself, more than he had thought he could care about anyone. Then he laughed, more of a croaking sound than the rippling tone he had intended, but the impression was conveyed nonetheless. Erestor's eyes lit with the knowledge that, even now, Camthalion was not bowed. Yes, Cam thought, feeling pride so strong it approached bliss, you will have to do better than that.   
  
With part of his mind appalled at his audacity, Cam moved quickly to twine his legs about Erestor's, trapping his master against him as he leaned forward to suck hard at his lips and tongue, claiming him with a passion that was almost rage. Then he suddenly pushed him away and contorted his body, trying to find enough purchase on the ground to propel him upwards. If he could manage to swing just one leg over the tree branch, he could free himself of his bonds in a few seconds, and then they would see . . .   
  
Of course, he failed. Erestor had fallen to the ground with the force of Cam's blow, but was on his feet again almost immediately. Instead of approaching his captive, however, he moved to the tree trunk and swiftly untied the rope. Camthalion, not expecting the move, crashed to the ground and, before he could regain his feet, Erestor was on him. The beautiful mouth he so longed for was hard as it crushed his, the teeth sharp as they tortured his lacerated lips, the tongue that forced its way into his mouth possessive and demanding as it matched Camthalion's anguished desire. Those talented hands that could inflict such torment, dragged down his bare back and fondled his buttocks, a single finger probing along the cleft until it found that most intimate of spots.   
  
"Please!" Camthalion finally broke his silence, gasping as his tightly clenched opening was breached. Then came burning pain as a rigid finger went suddenly deeper, his flesh closing hot and soft around it. Erestor's other hand reached around his body to stroke his stiff organ, bringing him to the point of climax with practised ease. Then both hands were gone, and Erestor stood over him, dark and terrible and exquisite in the night.   
  
"Undress me." It was a command, but this one Cam could not resist. He moved quickly to stand, but Erestor's hand on his head kept him from rising further than his knees. His hands still bound, he used his teeth, undoing the silken knot of his master's belt with difficulty, but at last it slipped free. The velvet robes were soft against his skin, although the tiny jet beads that decorated them, which had been faceted to catch the light, scratched his face as he burrowed among the folds, trying to find the hidden catches. The garment was fiendishly complex, and he wondered briefly if Erestor had worn it on purpose.   
  
Had he known he would find him? Cam decided it was likely. The thought that Erestor had watched him carefully enough to be able to surmise his plans sent a warm rush through him, and he redoubled his efforts. At last, the luxurious garments slithered down over the glowing golden skin, leaving his master clad only in a brief loincloth. Cam paused, looking up for permission, but received only a raised eyebrow in return. A brief tug and the final garment fell away, allowing the evidence of Erestor's attraction to him to spring free. Before Cam could give it the attention it deserved, he was pushed to the ground, his bound hands trapped beneath him, Erestor's weight coming to rest between his legs.  
  
"You will scream for me," his master's voice promised, but Cam bit down on his tongue and buried his face in the grass, refusing to comply. What followed immediately was no tender assault, no gentle, slow seduction. Instead, Cam felt himself spread wide, and the next second, his master was imbedded in him balls deep, stroking deeply, demanding with every thrust Cam's complete compliance, his utter surrender. Cam saw lightening burst across his vision, as the tide of his desire and sweep of emotions long repressed were at last allowed voice. It brought him to ecstasy, and finally he submitted, screaming out Erestor's name as the elf's hot seed burned him from within as his own soaked the ground beneath him.   
  
Erestor slowly withdrew, and Cam could hear the sounds of him dressing. Camthalion had never felt so at peace in his life, as he lay on the ground at his master's feet. Then soft hands were rubbing a soothing cream on his back and over his abused thighs, as a sweet voice praised his beauty. There was an edge of ice in the tone, however, when he was ordered to his feet. "Pick up your things," Erestor commanded, and Cam quickly went to gather the heap of cloth that had once been his clothing. As he returned to his master's side, he found Erestor regarding him critically. "We'll discuss your lack of respect later," he promised, a bite in his voice that Cam both dreaded and hungered to hear. After straightening a few minute wrinkles out of his robes, Erestor walked off in the direction of the city. Cam watched him go with a feeling of abject loss stealing over him. He could not follow unless commanded, so he stood there forlornly, holding his ripped clothes in his still bound hands. Had he been found unworthy? Had he not pleased him? Was this his real punishment, to remain here, alone and abandoned, as Erestor returned to his young lover?   
  
"Come along, Camthalion," Erestor's tone was impatient as it drifted back over his shoulder. Cam felt his heart give a leap, and he gratefully obeyed, following the mind numbingly erotic creature through the trees. His master.  
  
TBC 


	11. Chapter Eleven

Title: Wild Justice 11/?   
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer@hotmail.com  
Rating: R   
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline and my precious, evil mind.   
Feedback: Please!  
Warnings: BDSM.   
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused.   
  
* * *  
  
Elrond sat, as he had for two days, watching . . . him . . . sleep. The lanterns about the talan had been lit not long before, but there were none very near his window. Yet thin particles danced on beams of Ithil's light, slipping easily through the loosely woven curtains, illuminating the room well enough, perhaps too well. The silver fingers that caressed the aquiline features of the elf on the bed showed him not as the robust hero of a past age, but as a fragile, withered being that scarcely resembled an elf anymore--a living ghost. Kneeling beside him, Elrond lifted an emaciated arm, carefully cradling the narrow wrist where translucent skin revealed a network of fine azure veins. His hands slid around to support the slender neck as he vainly scanned the shadowed eyes for some sign of improvement. The face before him was barely recognizable, composed only of angular planes and gaunt, hollow cheeks, its expression listless, as if all emotion had been burned away along with the flesh. Elrond felt a hundred things at once as he regarded him--distress, protectiveness, pity--none of which he had ever thought to feel for one who had been so strong.   
  
After tucking the blankets more securely around the frigid form, Elrond resumed his seat and his vigil, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. He had ceased to notice the shivers that racked his own body or the iciness of his skin, but he did notice that he was tired, so very tired. But he would not rest, could not. He had not been there the last time . . . he . . . needed him--had left him to run after Isildor, thinking his king already dead--and he would not make the same mistake twice.  
  
He couldn't have rested anyway. The dim light, the creaks and groans of the talan as it moved slightly in the night breeze, the almost imperceptible sound of the rise and fall of his companion's breathing, all conspired to deny him sleep. Worst of all, however, was that cursed song that kept running through his head, like a minstrel who had drunk too much wine at a summer festival and wouldn't shut up. It lingered over him like a sinister echo, causing a pulse of despair to shudder through him. He pushed aside his thoughts, dismissing them as unhealthy and futile. Dwelling on the past would not aid the future. He had learned the hard way to focus on the present, to release the past and to trust the future to care for itself. But still that endless, annoying, juvenile rhyme continued . . .   
  
Gil-galad was an Elven-king.  
Of him the harpers sadly sings . . .   
  
And they had. There were songs composed in tribute to others, even some to himself, and ballads written of lovers and as praises to Arda's beauty. But those that were invariably sung at important occasions, all, all were about . . . him. It was partly his status as a hero, yes, but also because there had been no closure--not for any of them. No body to mourn and properly bury, no eulogies to praise his many accomplishments. So they sang their tributes, and continued to sing them as the centuries passed, striving, he supposed, to make sense of the incomprehensible. Yet not one of those ridiculous, long-winded, pretentious ballads had ever got it right.  
  
A bitter taste filled Elrond's mouth. His usual control eluded him, as it had for weeks, like a delicate spider's web that tore when he clasped it too tightly. He still couldn't say it. He could hear his own voice, echoing the name just a few days ago, but he couldn't make himself utter the words now. He knew he should feel joy, but what he actually found running through his veins was a sort of horror, and a disbelief that he had left his king to such a fate. He had stood by while they wrote songs about him, mourned him, painted murals of his last moments . . . and had spent countless days trying, and failing, to forget. Some foresight, some prescience should have warned him, but it had not.   
  
The last whose realm was fair and free  
between the Mountains and the Sea.  
  
He let the heels of his hands press into his eyes, yet still he saw the arched marble halls and swaying golden leaves of a city that had since crumbled to dust. And there, on the steps of the palace, a tall and strikingly good-looking elf, with a sun-kissed complexion and glorious body under a dazzlingly white tunic emblazoned with stars. One look in the brilliant lapis eyes, so serene yet so joyous, and he had been lost. When those sensual lips curved into a sudden smile on seeing him, he found the expression contagious and had smiled for days. Crush, infatuation, whatever it was--it had been instantaneous and overwhelming. He had never before or since loved so quickly or so completely.  
  
Elrond let his head fall back against the hard wood of the chair, heedless of the pain in his stiff neck. He still marveled at the delighted laughter and almost perpetual good humour of the one who had so easily captured his heart. The king had been generous and kind to the anxious new arrival at his court, and what a court it was! None of them now could touch it, not Mirkwood or Lorien or even his own Imladris, for Lindon the great had also been Lindon the fair, with its natural beauty enhanced by every art known to elf, dwarf or man. He could still almost hear the singing fountains that gave the realm its name, their delicate metal and crystal plates quivering with a thousand soft songs as water cascaded over them, setting a multitude of rainbows dancing on the air, while blossoms from the flowering trees blew with random beauty over polished flagstones. Whenever anyone praised the "perfection" of Imladris, he smiled, but it was always tinged with sadness, for he could call nothing fair after that lost home.   
  
Even more fascinating than the material attractions, however, were the elves, who had dwelt in Lindon in countless throngs unknown these days, and in a mix not seen since. The survivors of Beleriand, Sindar from Doriath and the Falas, Noldor from Gondolin and the houses of Fingolfin and Fëanor, and Laiquendi, the early settlers of the area, as well as Numenorian visitors. Elrond had felt at home there, despite the uneasiness between Sindar and Noldor, as he never had anywhere else. Perhaps it was because all the varied strains in his family line were represented: Noldor from his father's line, Sindar from his mother's, and men from both. But to the young Peredhil, having just chosen to live as an elf rather than a man, none was more stunning than his host, the last of the High Kings of the Noldor. Soon Elrond had found many excuses to spend all the time he could with his kinsman.  
  
Idly fingering a lock of dark hair that was woven around part of a silken banner, Elrond allowed himself the indulgence of remembering. The small token had long been his talisman, and he regularly wore it pinned within his robes, especially when faced with a difficult decision or task. It brought him comfort and a measure of serenity, as if his old mentor was standing beside him, guiding his actions. He remembered clearly the day he acquired it. He and the king had ridden out beyond the city walls with a party of other elves and stopped near a small stream to partake of their midday meal. His liege had insisted on a game of skill to amuse them all after lunch, and Elrond had successfully passed along the swaying rope stretched across the stream more times and faster than any other in the company. Laughing, the king had asked him what he would choose as a reward. It had taken all Elrond's self-control not to tell him, despite the presence of many others, what he would truly like, and after a brief inward struggle he had simply said that he would think on it. He had assumed the king would forget, but that night after dinner he caught Elrond as he was leaving the great hall and asked again.  
  
Elrond could still recall the warmth of the king's light touch on his shoulder, and the great effort it had taken not to lean toward him. He had wondered then, in a panic, if his lord had noticed how often Elrond had made an excuse to touch him, brushing against him at every opportunity, passing too closely when going through a doorway, his hands lingering a bit too long as he helped him onto his horse. He had raised his eyes to meet the shining blue ones of his lord and then quickly looked away before he betrayed himself, his chest tightening as he dared not even breathe. He had been afraid his king would somehow learn of the burning desire that had been building in him for so long. Elrond was highly conscious of his mixed parentage and the suspicion that his years with Maglor still caused in others' eyes, and had not wanted to see shock, embarrassment or, worse, revulsion in that beloved gaze. But the king had not allowed him to slip away; instead he dropped his hand to Elrond's elbow and steered him into a nearby room. It was an empty antechamber to the main dining area, dark except for the flickering shapes a few low burning tapers sent dancing along the walls.   
  
"What is wrong, Voronwer? You have been avoiding me all night." The smooth, rich voice was mesmerizing to Elrond, who found it impossible to speak. He noticed, though, how the king's very presence seemed to bring the room to shimmering life--he carried so much light within himself that darkness could not survive when he was near.  
  
"I . . . nothing, my liege, I . . . did not mean to offend."  
  
The king regarded him with a somewhat bemused look, his dark head tilted slightly to the side. "You have not offended me, young one. But you promised to think on your reward." The king absentmindedly brushed a strand of hair behind his ear as he spoke, and Elrond suddenly knew what he wanted. Before he could think how presumptuous it would sound, he blurted out his request. The king's usual unflappable manner and elaborate courtesy had not faltered; without so much as a minor hesitation, he pulled a knife from his belt and cut a lock of his shining hair. "A small thing, surely," he had commented, handing it over with a slight bow. "But if it pleases you . . . "  
  
Elrond had looked at him silently, unable to tell him what would truly please him, but somehow the king seemed to know. "Vanimle sila tiri, Elrond."* There was no mockery in his eyes, no sarcasm in his voice as he lifted the young elf's chin and regarded him searchingly. Unlike others, who had been known to treat Elrond as if he were somehow tainted because of his human blood, the king's manner showed nothing but admiration. Before Elrond fully realised what was happening, he found himself being kissed by lips that knew how to prolong sensation, and tasted by a tongue that coiled provocatively about his own, sending flames all the way to his fingertips. Elrond had stood breathless and somewhat alarmed at the strength of his feelings, when at last they parted. "It cannot surprise you to hear that I find you exceptionally appealing." The king smiled warmly as he passed a thumb lightly over Elrond's lower lip. "I would consider it a great honour to take you to bed."  
  
"I . . . " Elrond was a mass of conflicting emotions, with fear being uppermost. He could hardly believe he was being offered his heart's desire so casually, when he had barely managed to that point to speak coherently in his king's presence. It was all too much, too soon. "Thank you, my liege, but I don't . . . that is, I'm not . . . "   
  
The king had taken the garbled refusal with good humour. "Perhaps another time, then." He stepped back and, with another warm smile, left Elrond standing in a room that suddenly seemed dim and cold without him.  
  
Elrond had clutched his prize to his chest. "Amin harmuva onalle e' cormamin,"** he whispered, but the king had not heard. He had afterwards carefully hidden away the lock of hair, so close to his own shade, and much later wrapped it in a torn banner . . . He winced, as less pleasant memories tried to engulf him, but he pushed them away. They weren't what he wanted to remember now.  
  
His sword was long, his lance was keen,  
his shining helm afar was seen;  
  
Slowly, over many years, the king brought his young relative into prominence as a trusted advisor. That such a wise, accomplished elf would rely so much on his advice had caused Elrond to blossom from a somewhat shy and nervous youth into a confident, outgoing adult. Many had complimented him on his charm, loyalty and diplomacy, but it had all been because he wanted to keep his king's high regard, needed to see approval in those eyes.  
  
The king had never referred to their conversation in the anteroom, nor had he repeated his offer. He was as gentle and patient with Elrond as if with a favoured child, teaching him all that he knew about managing a large and diverse realm. Elrond had absorbed the lessons and enjoyed being so often in his king's company, but the almost paternal fondness with which he was treated caused him to worry that perhaps his liege saw him as a substitute for the son he had never had. The thought had driven him almost to distraction, for Elrond's feelings towards his king were anything but filial. But his gratitude and deference had long kept him silent.  
  
Elrond supposed it was a combination of many things that had finally brought the situation to a head: his exhaustion after a long series of debates which had attempted, and failed, to heal the widening gap between Sindar and Noldor in Lindon, his frustration at the king's perfect serenity--which he was far from feeling himself--and the sheer beauty of his liege as he carefully collected a group of scrolls and prepared to reshelve them with his usual meticulousness. The late afternoon light had poured over him as he stood by his desk, gleaming white robes a perfect foil for his dark hair, his deep blue eyes as beautiful as they were tranquil. Whatever the cause, Elrond's control had finally snapped, and before he could stop himself, he had pressed his king back against the wall and kissed him hard. His mind was screaming at him for his abject stupidity, but the hunger he had felt building for so long at last overpowered his resolve. "A'maelamin, how long I've wanted . . . lirimaer, you shine so brightly . . . the sun pales beside you . . . " He knew at some point in the babble that followed that he was becoming incoherent, but he didn't care. All that mattered was the warm, willing elf in his arms, who did not protest at all as he pinned him against the wall and proceeded to ravish him.   
  
They had not openly declared their love, for to do so would have been to forfeit any chance in the ongoing negotiations with the Sindar, who regarded Elrond as their champion at court. Had he been formally the king's consort, he would not have commanded the same respect nor been able to attempt to be a bridge between the sundered groups in Lindon. Still, by the time of the Last Alliance he had to assume that most people knew. It hardly mattered by then, anyway, as the negotiations among the elves had largely failed, with various companies leaving Lindon to form communities of their own, and Sauron rising as more of a threat than division could ever be.   
  
The countless stars of heaven's field  
were mirrored in his silver shield.  
  
And so Elrond's thoughts came back, as they always did, to Mordor. It had been dim and dreary that day, the last in the siege of Barad-dur, but their banners had whipped almost cheerfully in the high wind, the glistening silver backgrounds and pure white stars adding beauty even to that diseased landscape. The king's eyes, usually so calm and gentle, had gleamed with a fierce light as he and Elrond positioned their troops. Elrond had had little time for contemplation in the midst of battle, but he remembered noting with pride that his lover shone as brightly in that ravaged land as he always had in Lindon, wielding Aeglos with a power and skill that carved a wide path all about him.  
  
Then the battle had closed about Elrond and he had been forced to concentrate on survival as wave after wave of enemy ranks crashed into them. Something had caused him to pause, however, and glance back over his shoulder a few moments later, to see his lover, eyes narrowing to dagger slits, impale an orc on Aeglos then turn in one fluid motion to bury his sword in another. His king had not seen Sauron come up behind him, and Elrond had no time even to call out a warning before a tortured scream of burning air hit him like a slap in the face, practically lifting him off his feet. He had had burns for weeks thereafter that refused to heal, and he had not even been that close to the dark lord. His king had been barely a hand breath away.  
  
But long ago he rode away  
and where he dwelleth none can say;  
  
Elrond recalled trying to gather his wits as he and the survivors of Sauron's attack dragged themselves back to their feet, but his thoughts had scattered like leaves in an autumn wind and he had never been able to build a complete picture of what followed. The fragmented scenes that chased across his vision formed a cruel enough kaleidoscope, however. He remembered a red streaked sky looming over that horrible, blackened plain; frantic searching among the scorched bodies, desperate to find him, desperate not to; pain that welled up dark and overwhelming, tearing at his soul; sitting among the ashes, sobbing like a baby one minute, then screaming the next, furious with him for leaving, for turning the joy of victory to dust; being told that Isildur had gone, taking the one ring with him; leaving behind that nightmare scene to track him down and force him to end it, desperate to wrench something good from the black despair that flooded him, yet failing even in that. The images crowded in until Elrond fell to his knees beside the bed, acid burning his tongue, even the memory of that pain overwhelming.  
  
He had been foolish enough to hope that his king's radiance could defeat even Sauron's dark power, and that somehow he would come back to him. But centuries passed and still there was nothing, nothing but the voice and the face that haunted his dreams. During the immediate aftermath of the war, when Sauron's minions had to be rounded up and destroyed, Elrond managed to function. He had found that, if he stayed awake long enough, was tired or drunk or battered enough at the end of the day, he could manage a restless sleep, and the next day's pain would sublimate the memories enough to allow him to do what he must. He had hoped for some time that he would be killed in combat, and had often led his forces, even outrunning them at times, as they chased the last of the resistance to ground. He had lusted after death, wanting never to have to see any more tomorrows dawning cold and drear and alone; but on the day the war finally ended, he still lived.   
  
Yet, in his mind, he had continued to exist on a battlefield, in the midst of a war that never stopped. When the armies packed up and went home, when the grass grew in patches over the old scarred plains, when time passed and others forgot, in Elrond's mind the world was still gloomy and bleak and a cold wind swept across its barren fields. The war had never ended, because his king had never come home.  
  
For into darkness fell his star  
in Mordor where the shadows are.  
  
Yes, the star of radiance had fallen, but Elrond went on, despite the fact that he had wanted nothing so much as to die with him. But that was a luxury he could not afford. His king had left him responsibilities and a people who needed heroes. The real hero was dead, or so he had believed, yet they required someone to rally around, someone to guide them, and there had been no one else. The mantle had fallen to him naturally, for he was the last of that line and everyone knew how close he and the king had been. Or they thought they knew. Elrond would never talk about it, but he thought many must have guessed. Celeborn, for instance, had never asked him the obvious question, why he steadfastly refused to take the title that could so easily have been his. Had not asked even on the eve of Elrond's marriage to his daughter, a union neither had desired.  
  
Elrond had, indeed, never been asked that query outright by any elf; perhaps they could guess the answer. How could he take the title, and thereby pretend to the nobility that had surrounded . . . him . . . so naturally? Elrond had never had his king's charisma, his easygoing humour even in the worst situations, his effortless assumption of the cares of state. The high king had never seemed plagued by doubt or burdened with worry, had never apparently doubted his decisions, or given a thought as to what right he had to guide the fates of so many. The cloak of authority that weighed so heavily on Elrond's shoulders, he had worn as if it was the lightest silk, not a burden at all but just another frame for his beauty. Besides, to take the name meant that its owner was not coming back, and that was something Elrond would never say.  
  
For centuries, Elrond had watched and waited, hoping his king would come back to him, and had remained the faithful lieutenant, holding Imladris as a haven for all who wished to come, just as his king had bade him. The souls that fell to Mandos did not remain there forever, but were born into new bodies and sent back to Arda, for elves were destined to live as long as earth remained. Elrond had believed with a fierce devotion that, someday, his lord would return to him. But, in recent years, doubts had begun to nibble at the edges of his certainty, as fewer and fewer elves were born. Elrond had made certain to inquire into all that were, but never had there been any sign of . . . his . . . soul being reanimated. Elrond's own children had been the last elves born into Arda, and since then he had worked very hard to accept that he was well and truly alone.   
  
Then this. To discover that his king had not returned for the simple reason that he had never left. With that realisation had come the crushing burden of guilt that still paralyzed him. As he had sat, warm and complaisant, waiting for his return, his king had lived and suffered, and he had done nothing to aid him. A cold barrenness that had settled beneath his breast now spread throughout his limbs. All the mental defenses that remained to him collapsed, and he cried, terrible, wracking sobs that echoed off the walls and deprived him of whatever dignity he still possessed. And still he could not say the name.  
  
TBC  
  
*Your beauty shines bright.  
** I shall treasure your gift in my heart. 


	12. Chapter Twelve

Title: Wild Justice 12/?   
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer@hotmail.com  
Rating: R   
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline and my precious, evil mind.   
Feedback: Please!  
Warnings: BDSM.   
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused.   
  
* * *   
"I'm telling you, I have to see this!" Elladan's eyes sparkled mischief up at him, but Orophin refused to be seduced so easily, especially into an act of supreme folly that could end up getting him killed.  
  
Perhaps his insane lover could be shamed into deciding on another way of passing their evening. "Well, I learn something new about you every day. I never realised you're a voyeur!"  
  
Elladan sighed impatiently. "I'm not. I just have to see old Glorfindel's reaction to this--I'd never forgive myself if I missed it."  
  
"And if he just happens to look out the window and see us sitting in a tree, spying on him?"  
  
"He won't. Didn't you see what Elrohir was wearing?" Orophin had to smile at the memory. Elrohir had been a picture of seduction: surrounded by what looked to be hundreds of burning candles, he had been wearing practically nothing, and that which he did have on was . . . Orophin's vocabulary failed him. It wasn't quite a tunic, for it only covered one side of his torso and had no arms, showing off part of a well-muscled but slim chest and a tightly defined stomach. Orophin had never seen a tunic that short or that loose before. It was silk, a seductive honey colour that, in the flickering candlelight, almost exactly matched that of Elrohir's lightly oiled skin. Gold armlets had encircled his biceps, golden strands wove their way through his elaborate braids and jeweled sandals decorated his high arched feet. No, Orophin decided, Glorfindel was not going to be looking out any windows. "And," Elladan promised, "if by some strange chance his eyes do wander, I'll say this was all my idea."  
  
"Which it is!"  
  
"Exactly. So what are you worried about?" Elladan's eyes were bright with laughter. "I thought you Galadrim were fearless."  
  
Orophin shook his head in defeat. "That word is not synonymous with stupid." Or at least it hadn't been, before two brown haired imps from Imladris complicated his life.  
  
Grinning delightedly at his obvious capitulation, Elladan caught hold of the bottom limb of the nearest tree. "I never thought it was. Come on--what could happen?"  
  
* * *  
  
Glorfindel made his weary way towards Elrohir's chambers. He was not looking forward to this. A servant had delivered a note to him, when he failed to show up for dinner, in Elrohir's hand, asking him to come to his rooms for a talk. Having spent two days supporting Elrond through something very close to a nervous breakdown, Glorfindel was in no mood for another stressful conversation. Especially after the talk with Lord Celeborn he had just had. As he was accompanying a party setting out at first light for the mountain, Glorfindel would have preferred a good night's sleep, which he had yet to get after the wearying week's hunt they had had and the emotional whirlwind since. No, he could definitely have done without what was almost certain to be a long, intense, and probably highly draining debate.   
  
"So how is he?" Thranduil's voice stopped him just as he reached the stairs leading up to the guest quarters. Glorfindel had not seen the king since his return and had no desire to speak with him. However Thranduil had shown amazing restraint in staying away until now, knowing that Celeborn and Elrond, as one-time vassals of the high king, had more of a stake in the matter than he. Yet naturally he was curious; Glorfindel could hardly blame him for that.   
  
He turned to see the king coming towards him from the shadows of the hallway. His attire was unusually simple--a satin robe in a deep red colour, but lacking embroidery or other adornments--and his hair was pulled into a simple club at his neck. Somehow, his appearance reassured Glorfindel that a seduction wasn't foremost on Thranduil's mind that night. "Not well. Lord Elrond is doing what he can, but . . . the damage is extensive."  
  
Thranduil cocked an eyebrow at him. "Considering that he is supposed to be dead, that is hardly surprising," he commented dryly. "Has there been any word as to why he lives, what happened to him?" Glorfindel paused, and Thranduil looked slightly insulted. "You forget, I was there, Glorfindel! I did not see what happened, but I mourned him with the rest. I have a RIGHT to know." The king's hand grasped the polished banister in front of him, barring the way up the stairs. It was more his words than his posture that restrained Glorfindel, who put a weary hand to his head before he thought about it.  
  
"You are exhausted." Thranduil glanced over his crumpled blue robe--had he changed it today, Glorfindel wasn't certain anymore--and his mussed hair. "Your pardon--I should have noticed. Come with me." He paused as Glorfindel shot him a look, then shook his head ruefully. "No, seneschal, this isn't part of some elaborate plot. I simply want to ask you a few questions without having you pass out on me. Just for a moment?"  
  
Glorfindel never knew exactly why he went. Part was his disinclination to face Elrohir, and the scene likely to ensue, part was Thranduil's undoubted persuasive ability, and part was simple exhaustion--he was just too tired to argue. The king led him to the impressive set of rooms set aside for his use. No one else seemed to be about, which was odd considering the number of attendants Thranduil had brought with him.   
  
"Wine?" The king gestured with a bottle towards the comfortable chairs near the window and Glorfindel settled himself in one, unconsciously relaxing weary muscles against the soft cushions. He was so tired that it was a struggle to keep his eyes open. "Someone nabbed the last of the Berdruskan," Thranduil was saying, "so we will have to make due with a lesser vintage." Glorfindel found a glass pressed into his hand and he sipped its contents gratefully. It was good, whatever it was, but that was not surprising--Thranduil knew wine. Among other things, Glorfindel thought grimly, as the king moved behind him and began to gently knead his shoulders.   
  
"Thranduil . . . "  
  
"Shhh. Just relax. This isn't a seduction--I rather prefer my partners conscious. Talk to me."   
  
The tone, as much as the hypnotic motions of the hands, was very persuasive. Glorfindel complied, not that there was much to tell. "He IS Gil-Galad--there's no doubt about that. Elrond is certain."  
  
"He should know." Glorfindel stiffened, but there was nothing disrespectful in Thranduil's tone. He assumed the Mirkwood ruler had heard the rumours about Elrond and the high king, but he apparently had no issue with them. Odd, how well he and Elrond seemed to be getting along lately.   
  
"The king does not seem to remember anything, not even who he is. We have no idea why he is alive, or how he came to be imprisoned. Should his condition improve, Elrond hopes to restore at least some of his memory, and then perhaps he can tell us . . . something."  
  
"But you are not planning to wait for that."  
  
Glorfindel sighed, and despite himself leaned further back against those gifted hands. He hadn't realised how many kinks there were in his muscles until Thranduil began working through them. "We leave in the morning."  
  
"How many?"   
  
"Lord Celeborn, Erestor and I, one hundred of the Galadrim, and a group of specially trained Noldorin servants of the Lady."  
  
"Appropriate that it should be Noldor, under the circumstances."  
  
Glorfindel smiled. Thranduil was easy to talk to--nothing ever had to be spelled out with him, nothing explained. The king missed so very little. "The Lady seemed to know even before we journeyed here that her servants would need training for a special task."  
  
"How convenient." Glorfindel laughed, the king's wry humour really was contagious. He almost wished he could stay here, drinking wine and relaxing under those talented hands, instead of facing the harangue that would surely occupy most of his night. Again, Thranduil seemed to understand his thoughts without being told.  
  
"Another glass." The king plucked the slender flute Glorfindel had not even realised he'd drained from his fingers and moved to refill it. "Oh come, seneschal," he teased, seeing Glorfindel's uncertain expression. "You need to rest, and I enjoy your company. Surely, a few more minutes will cause no harm?" Thranduil held out the crystal goblet, once more filled with seductive ruby red wine.  
  
Glorfindel knew he should go, knew Elrohir was waiting for him, but perhaps it would be best if he did not see him under the circumstances. He was so tired and his usual calm was in tatters; he could not be certain not to say something that would make things worse. Perhaps they both needed a bit more time before having that particular discussion. Slowly, his fingers curved about the glass Thranduil held out so temptingly. As he said, just a few more minutes . . .   
  
* * *  
  
"What do you see?"  
  
"Nothing, and you're on my foot." Orophin shifted slightly, but there wasn't a great deal of room on the narrow branch. Still, it had been the only one close enough to allow them to get within viewing distance of the guest rooms. There were only a few with lighted windows, but they were easy enough to see through. Orophin made a mental note not to engage in any private activities near the palace windows, as the diaphanous curtains did practically nothing to conceal the interiors from prying eyes. Of course, there weren't supposed to be any eyes at this level. He suddenly felt very uncomfortable, especially when he noticed that the room directly below them belonged to Gildor, and that both he and Haldir were clearly visible. VERY clearly . . .   
  
"I don't think this is such a good idea . . . "  
  
Elladan had apparently also noticed the two just below them. "Well, I suppose that's ONE way of having dinner, although I personally have always preferred to keep it on the table."  
  
Orophin felt an insane urge to giggle. Not that it was unusual for him to come across Haldir in the midst of an assignation, but this was a bit embarrassing. Licking desert off your lover might sound very erotic, or even be so if you were involved in it, but it did look rather silly from a distance. But not that much of a distance, some lucid part of his brain reminded him, and he suddenly wondered just how much trouble he would be in if he interrupted Haldir once again. It really didn't bear thinking about. "Be quick," he urged. Orophin was fairly sure that they were well concealed in the darkness beyond the palace windows, but Haldir's eyes had always been sharp, and he didn't want to prolong this insanity any longer than necessary.   
  
"There he is." Elladan squinted through the intervening limbs, trying to see into his brother's room, which was still some distance away and to the left. "I don't see Glorfindel, though."  
  
Orophin could not see much of anything from his position behind Elladan, but that concerned him less than the slimness of the branch under their feet. He had enough experience with trees to know that this one was not happy bearing the weight of both of them, but he could not fully understand the little moans of protest it was making with Elladan chattering away. ". . . imagine where he could be. Elrohir seemed so sure he would be coming."  
  
"Maybe we just can't see him from here. Come, Elladan, let's leave your brother to his privacy." Orophin thought he could live without irritating Imladris' seneschal again, assuming he was there, and he shrank back a bit more against the tree's trunk.   
  
"I'll try to get closer," Elladan said, and before Orophin could caution him, he'd slid down perilously close to the end of the limb. The tree groaned louder and Orophin grabbed his lover's ankle, just in case.   
  
"Elladan, I really think . . . " Orophin's protest was interrupted by a shout of indignation from the palace, and he closed his eyes in dread as Elrohir's heavily braided head suddenly appeared sticking out of a window, outrage on his features.   
  
"What are you doing out there? Elladan, are you SPYING on me?" Elrohir did not wait for an answer, but grabbed his brother's arm and tried to drag him into the room. Elladan instinctively pulled away, but Elrohir was not willing to let him go and climbed out after him. "I can't believe you're doing this!," he hissed. "This is all YOUR fault!," he added, glaring at Orophin, who only managed to repress an indignant rejoinder because of the sight that met his eyes over Elrohir's shoulder.   
  
Oh no. This couldn't be happening again. Having had to press back against the trunk of the tree and stand up to allow Elrohir sufficient room to join the party, Orophin was faced with the appalling sight of Glorfindel being slowly undressed by the king. The two were perfectly visible in the light of the lantern that hung just outside their window. Orophin managed to stop the stifled scream that threatened to escape him, but something of his horror must have shown on his face. He reached out to stop him, but it was too late; Elrohir looked back over his shoulder, following the direction of Orophin's stare, and froze.   
  
* * *   
  
"I am certain you can protect yourself from my lascivious urges," the king was saying as he removed Glorfindel's outer robes to more effectively continue his impromptu massage. Glorfindel sighed. In truth, he doubted he could be seduced by anyone that evening; he was too exhausted, and the king's hands did feel wonderful.   
  
"I should be going." His voice held no conviction at all, and he really couldn't blame Thranduil for laughing at him. He did, however, protest slightly when his tunic was tugged over his head. The king ignored him and soon his shirt followed the tunic to the floor. The latter had been a poor barrier anyway, composed of an especially thin silk, a gift from Elrohir . . . Glorfindel shifted uncomfortably at that thought, and briefly tried to rise. He couldn't help but wonder how his young lover would view this particular scene, innocent though it might be, could he see it. However the king's hands pushed him back down.   
  
"I will let you go," Thranduil promised, "just as soon as the rest of those knots come out of your muscles. Besides, I think we should talk." Glorfindel groaned, partly in pleasure--the king made an excellent masseur, and the hands on his bare skin felt divine--but also at the thought of having been maneuvered into one of those conversations after all. The king's next words surprised him, however. Glorfindel smiled slightly to himself--he should know by now never to underestimate Thranduil. "You should not take such a small company with you. Oh, I know the skill of the Galadrim," the king assured him, seeing Glorfindel's expression in the almost mirror like surface of the window, "but one hundred twenty is not an impressive number, especially when you do not know what you might be facing. I can have five hundred expert archers here in less than a week."  
  
"Your majesty . . . "  
  
"I lost people at Barad-dur, too, Glorfindel," Thranduil reminded him, his hands stilling momentarily as if to punctuate his words, then beginning their rhythmic stroking once more. "If there are other elves in the mines, some may belong to me. Celeborn did not bother to consult me about his plans, but you cannot deny the truth of my words, or my claims." As usual, Thranduil had phrased things in such a way as to make it impossible for Glorfindel to deny his logic.   
  
"The decision was not made to insult you, your majesty. Imladris, too, would like to contribute to the rescue party, but the only ones of our realm going along are myself, Erestor and one of our operatives who chances to be here at the moment. We simply do not wish to tarry any longer than necessary."  
  
"Then my people can meet you on the way. This mountain of yours is, I understand, closer to my realm than Lorien?" Glorfindel did not bother to wonder how Thranduil knew that. His silence was taken as acquiescence, and the king's voice had a smile in it when he spoke again. "Good. Then it is settled. Five hundred of my archers will meet you on the road."  
  
Glorfindel found his desire to argue evaporating, especially when Thranduil began digging into the tense muscles lower down his back. By the Valar, that felt glorious! "But we will travel quickly. It may be difficult for your people to prepare themselves to meet us in time, and I fear Lord Celeborn will not wait. Even if you send a fast rider tonight, it will take . . . "  
  
Glorfindel stopped at the king's rich laughter. Warm arms circled him, pulling him back into a sudden embrace. "My dear Glorfindel," Thranduil told him in amused tones, "I sent word two days ago!"  
  
* * *  
  
Orophin was able to say exactly what happened later, as the whole thing played out almost in slow motion. Elrohir stared at the erotic picture made by the two blond Eldar, the lamplight gleaming off their shining hair and causing every caress of the king's hands on Glorfindel's torso to be visible, as was the delight on their faces when the sultry massage ended in a close embrace. Orophin actually ached for Elrohir. Despite everything, no one deserved to have to see something like that, and the pain in the elfling's eyes was eloquent. Then something in him seemed to snap; every line in his body tensed, his face drained of colour and his lips twisted furiously. Suddenly he looked like a warrior's son.   
  
There was no time to say anything, even had there been any words worth uttering, however, as the branch beneath them finally gave a massive shudder and cracked, tumbling all three towards the ground. Orophin grabbed at another branch above them while reaching for the neck of Elladan's tunic; the latter move was successful, the former was not, but he did manage to propel the three of them towards the talan before he lost his grip entirely. A second later they crashed through a window and tumbled into someone's room. It only took a brief glance about for Orophin to wish he'd just let them fall the five or so stories to the ground.   
  
From somewhere beneath a pile of elves, someone groaned faintly. Gildor, who had been slammed against the table by the force of their entry into his rooms, snatched at his discarded tunic, but not before Orophin had a chance to see just why his brother was so infatuated with the elf. Well, who would have thought?   
  
"Get off me!," a voice demanded furiously from somewhere beneath him, and Orophin scrambled to his feet, pulling Elladan with him before realising that his strangle hold on his lover was almost literally that. Elladan shot him a sour look and rubbed his neck after they detangled themselves, then everyone looked down at the two elves still sitting in the floor. Elrohir looked furious, although for which reason Orophin wasn't sure. The elf beside him, however, had clearly decided who to blame for this debacle and was glaring up at him, while holding a hand to his ankle. It was, Orophin suddenly noticed with a feeling of guilt, twisted at a rather unusual angle.   
  
"Hello brother," Orophin said weakly.   
  
TBC 


	13. Chapter Thirteen

Title: Wild Justice 13/?   
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer@hotmail.com  
Rating: R   
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline and my precious, evil mind.   
Feedback: Please!  
Warnings: BDSM.   
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused.   
  
* * *  
  
"Where are you going?"  
  
Elrohir had been so intent on reaching his goal that he had not even noticed Erestor, whose black robes blended perfectly into the darkened corridor. He briefly wondered why his old tutor was still up, as it was getting rather late, and why he was still attired in the stiff, formal robes he had worn at dinner. Most elves changed into something more relaxing in the late evening hours; just like Erestor to prefer to remain prim and proper and uncomfortable as well. "Nowhere."   
  
Erestor regarded him calmly, but did not move out of the way. Elrohir tried to push around him--he really did not have time for this--but a strong arm prevented him. It was so unlike Erestor to physically restrain him that his anger briefly rescinded and he looked at his old tutor with surprise. "There is nothing that way except the king's rooms," Erestor remarked evenly. "What could you possibly have to say to him at this time of night?"  
  
"That isn't your concern." Elrohir tried to move past again, but Erestor's grip on his upper arm tightened.   
  
"I think otherwise. Your father is preoccupied at the moment, and I do not think he would like the idea of your endangering relations between our two lands by doing any thing rash." Erestor's dark eyes swept over Elrohir, and a faint smile came to his lips. "I also doubt he would approve of you running about the palace dressed like . . . that."  
  
Elrohir looked down at himself, surprised to see that he was still wearing the special garment he had bought for Glorfindel's seduction. It did look somewhat out of place, but it wasn't Erestor's place to tell him that. "I have to speak to Glorfindel, and he happens to be with the king at the moment," Elrohir explained with as much dignity as he could manage in his current attire. "Let me go."  
  
"If I do, what is it you have planned?" Erestor regarded him sardonically. "Challenging the king to a duel or attempting to throw him out a window will hardly improve matters."  
  
"I am not going to do anything to him." Elrohir almost spat the words, his disgust and anger threatening to choke him. "I am simply going to inform Glorfindel that we are through. At least *I* have the courtesy to do so before engaging in any other affairs."  
  
"And is that what you want--another affair?" Erestor's words sounded harsh to Elrohir, who found even the thought of another lover almost sickening, yet the tone was gentle, and his tutor simultaneously brushed a curl off his forehead, reminding Elrohir of the many times he had comforted him as a child. Elrohir felt his anger beginning to fade, and with it went his protection against the pain that threatened to overwhelm him. "Come, little one," Erestor told him, wrapping an arm about his shoulders. "Don't do something you will regret."   
  
Elrohir bit his lips to stop them trembling like some ridiculous elfling's, and blinked back tears. His comfortable shield of denial had been ripped away for a second time, and there was no longer any hope of getting it back. Thranduil would win, just as he always did, had already done so if that scene had progressed as expected. But Elrohir refused to collapse into a whiny puddle, and he certainly was not going to cry; he had been humiliated enough for one night.   
  
Erestor must have noticed him weakening, for he smiled and slowly drew him back down the corridor. "Come away, nin-bain, and leave this to me, as you promised."   
  
Elrohir almost laughed; the ludicrous image of his old tutor attempting to best Thranduil momentarily jolted him out of his despair. He knew it would never happen, but he refrained from saying something that would insult Erestor. He had no wish to hurt him, nor, he admitted to himself miserably, did he even want to confront Glorfindel. He would see him in the morning and end it. Let him enjoy his rendezvous in peace.  
  
* * *  
  
Glorfindel awoke when the mattress under him sagged with the weight of another warm body. For a moment, he unconsciously pulled it closer, snuggling against the silken skin and the comfortable heat, but for some reason it didn't feel quite right. Elrohir was not this muscular, did not feel this substantial in his arms. Glorfindel's fuzzy brain slowly returned to something like consciousness, and he focused his eyes. Elrohir also wasn't blond.  
  
A soft laugh echoed in his ear and Glorfindel sat up, looking about in disorientation and gathering dismay. Almost immediately he was pulled back down and enveloped in strong arms that resisted his struggles. "You do not leave for hours yet--there is time, lirimaer," a laughing voice said just before a warm mouth closed over his own.   
  
Glorfindel would have preferred it had he hated this--had he honestly been able to say that it was appalling, nauseating, and revolting. But the kiss was none of those things. He had long before learned the disconcerting fact that hate and attraction are not necessarily mutually exclusive. And yes, Glorfindel thought vaguely, as a solid weight rolled on top of him, he did sincerely hate Thranduil. The king was so casually good at obtaining whatever he wanted, regardless of the cost to others, and at using his beauty, charm and intelligence as weapons against friend and foe alike.   
  
Glorfindel's hands encountered only smooth, enticing flesh as he attempted to push the king's weight off him, as Thranduil had not bothered to wear anything to bed. What had they done? Why was he even here? Glorfindel couldn't remember, but he assumed that he must have passed out from exhaustion or too much wine at some point, and naturally Thranduil had not bothered to call a servant to help him back to his rooms. Oh yes, he thought, as a knee slipped between his legs, parting them easily, he definitely hated the king. Unfortunately, his body did not. But his body did not rule him, had not done so in more centuries than he could count, and no matter how good this might feel, it had to stop now. "Thranduil, we are not going to do this."  
  
* * *  
  
Camthalion could hardly believe it. Everything had been going so well, and now this. The elfling had obviously realised Erestor's attraction to him, and had decided to up the stakes. Cam's eyes narrowed, taking in the supple skin hardly concealed by the trifle of silk, the elaborate hairstyle, and the ornate jewelry. By the Valar, even his sandals sparkled! It was attire for a seduction if he had ever seen one, and Erestor was obviously taken in. Cam felt short of breath as his master leaned closer to the young one, murmuring something inaudible, his darkness a perfect compliment to the elfling's golden glow. A mindless fear washed through Cam at the sight of them together, and at that moment he finally understood the kin slayings, at last knew what it was to wish harm to one of his own.   
  
As the two approached him, Camthalion consciously relaxed the muscles in his shoulders and clasped his hands behind his back, where they could not reach for the young one's throat. "Camthalion, return to your lodgings and sleep. We will talk tomorrow." Erestor's words were clearly an order, and were spoken in the offhand manner of one who expects obedience. And why should he not? Had Camthalion not submitted completely and fully that night, believing that by doing so he was acquiring a lover as well as a master? But obviously that had not been the case. Erestor had been amusing himself while he waited for the young Peredhil to throw himself at him.   
  
Camthalion pushed down the killing rage that swept through him, keeping his features placid as he inclined his head slightly in assent and moved back to allow them to pass. A honeyed fragrance lingering on the air after the young one, and he recognised it as a costly perfume, a highly prized Imladris export. To him it smelled putrid, almost vile, and it was all he could do not to retch. Confusion and pain warred with anger for supremacy, but Camthalion retained hold on his emotions as he backed far enough into the shadows that they could no longer see him. The wood of the corridor wall felt hard against his bruised back, but it was the scene before his eyes that made him flinch. Then they were gone, disappearing into a room down the hall.   
  
Camthalion waited a dozen breaths, swaying with the effort of standing motionless rather than pelting after them, then forced himself to wait another few minutes just to prove that he was still in control. Then, as silently as the shadows themselves, he moved down the hallway. The door though which they had disappeared was to one of the larger guest suites, and Camthalion cracked it slowly, barely breathing. In a second he could see them, sitting on the bed together although not yet intertwined. Erestor's dark hair was slightly tousled, so different from its usual sleek perfection, and Cam wondered if it had been so before or if this was some sign of their lovemaking. Then the young one spoke, and his words caused Cam's hand to involuntarily clutch at the door tightly enough to almost wrench the decorative handle from the wood.  
  
". . . could love me."  
  
Erestor laughed, and pulled the elfling against his chest. "But, pen-neth, many people love you! I always have, have I not?" One pale hand stroked softly down Elrohir's arm, gliding over the firm muscles there with the assurance of long practice. "You must trust me; this will all pass in time. You should not allow it to make you feel undesirable."  
  
"But I went to all this trouble for nothing. It's just as well. I look ridiculous."  
  
"You do not look ridiculous. You're very . . . "  
  
"Very what?" Elrohir looked up at Erestor with tear filled eyes, their wetness matching the sheen of his carefully oiled skin. His dark braids gleamed in the light of the many candles lighting the love nest he had prepared, and the cloying scent of that sickening perfume permeated the air. Camthalion wanted him dead.  
  
"Very alluring." Camthalion could not see Erestor's face, as his back was turned to the door, but his hand slid to fondle a fat braid, letting it run through his fingers idly.  
  
Elrohir's face lit, and suddenly laughter was mingled with his tears. "I never thought I'd hear YOU say THAT." He fell back against the bed, still convulsed with mirth. "This has to be the strangest night of my life. Instead of a seduction, I spend it falling out of trees, bandaging twisted ankles and being told I'm "alluring" by my old tutor! You are kind Erestor," he said, looking up at him through dark lashes, and his tone was suddenly serious again as a muscle quirked beside his mouth. "But you lie. I am pathetic--a stupid elfling who overreached himself."   
  
"Pen-neth, you are NOT pathetic."   
  
Camthalion seethed as the young one on the bed stretched, showing off the sleek muscles under his taut skin, the golden silk of his tunic riding up dangerously. His eyes still looked sad, however. "Then what am I?"  
  
Erestor paused, and Camthalion held his breath, praying to every deity he knew that his master would reject the tempting sight before him, would withstand the blatant attempt at seduction and run out of the room to his own chambers where Cam could join him. But, of course, he did none of those things. He bent over the elfling until his dark hair almost obscured them both, but the word he uttered floated clearly back to Cam's ears, where it sounded like a death knell. "Beautiful."  
  
* * *  
  
Thranduil continued his exploration of Glorfindel's chest, ignoring the hands that made weak attempts to push him away. He felt the tension in the body under him, and knew that, despite Glorfindel's passion for him, he would fight to the last. That was expected, even desirable--part of his attraction was his loyal nature, and Thranduil would have been somewhat disappointed had this been too easy.  
  
"I have a lover." To Thranduil's surprise, the golden body beneath him gave a sudden convulsion and almost succeeded in bucking him off. The king smiled; he hadn't known Glorfindel liked it rough, but he was perfectly willing to oblige. Putting his full weight into it, he pushed his companion back against the thick feather mattress, practically burying him in its plump folds, as he pressed his advantage.   
  
"No, what you have is a child who has not seen what you have seen or experienced what you've experienced, and who will never be your equal in anything. Or is that what you are afraid of--having a relationship with one who equals if not surpasses you? Is it dominance you fear, seneschal, or do you secretly crave it?" Thranduil did not give him time to respond, but captured his lips again, a feeling of pure triumph flooding his body.  
  
This is what he had wanted for so very long. He had wanted it enough to mend fences with Imladris, exchanging letters, then ambassadors, and finally even allowing Elrond's dim eldest son to be fostered on him for a while, to carefully maneuver the situation until there could be no excuse for Glorfindel to turn him down. If Elrond could send his son to Mirkwood on an extended trip, why not his seneschal? It had been perfect, until that brainless elfling had to step in and jeopardize plans laid long before he was even born.  
  
But this was sweet triumph, and Thranduil reveled in it, his heart pounding an erratic rhythm in his chest. He had rarely worked so hard or waited so long for anything in his life, but oh, it was worth it! He had known, all those years ago, that this was one who could match him, one with whom he would never grow bored, who had seen and done as much, if not more, than he. It was a horrible waste, that such a creature should live out the centuries as nothing more than a lackey in Elrond's household! Only the dim-witted Peredhil could have so undervalued the gift he had been given. Thranduil smiled against Glorfinel's lips before forcibly parting them. He would make him his chief counselor, would give him the riches and honour he deserved, and together they would reclaim the beauty of the Greenwood and drive away the darkness that had overshadowed it.  
  
Oh yes. The game was finally over and he had won.   
  
* * *  
  
"You ARE beautiful, Elrohir. No one could look on you and be unmoved. You have never understood your appeal, but all others see it." Erestor smiled at Elrohir's patently disbelieving stare. "You think, do you not, that Glorfindel is attracted to the king?"  
  
"I KNOW he is . . . he loves him. You forget, I saw them together . . . that other time and then again tonight . . ."  
  
Erestor arched a brow in that annoying way of his. "You are right about the attraction. It is there, has always been there, and probably always will be." Seeing the hurt that flared in Elrohir's eyes, Erestor smiled, a little sadly. "You are young, so you confuse gilt with gold, and lust with love. Yet, it is possible to feel temptation without also being in love."   
  
"That isn't true. If he really loved me, as I do him . . ."  
  
"What, then he would never react to another as long as he lived?" Erestor smiled. "Love doesn't work like that, pen-neth. It heightens our ability to feel, it does not restrict it."  
  
Elrohir shut his eyes, wishing Erestor would just go away. His thoughts were confused and he ached inside; he just wanted to be alone.   
  
"You don't believe me?" Elrohir opened his eyes at Erestor's question, feeling annoyance that his tutor would not just let this go. Trying to ignore the hard knot in his chest and the tight ache in his throat, he framed another derisive comment, but it died on his lips when he looked up into the glittering eyes above him. It was like staring into the face of a stranger, one with a darkly beautiful visage and a hypnotic gaze. Erestor slowly slid a finger over Elrohir's chest, just beneath his breast-bone, then moved up slightly to lightly encircle one nipple. An unexpected shiver ran through Elrohir and his skin contracted. "You didn't answer me, pen-neth."   
  
What was happening? Elrohir tried telling himself that this was Erestor, his tutor, his friend, his . . . but he was finding it difficult to think, especially when a red tongue darted out to moisten redder lips, while something in that steady regard held him fast. "No . . . I . . . "  
  
"Then I suppose I shall have to demonstrate."  
  
* * *  
  
Passion ran through Glorfindel like a current as Thranduil slipped his hands down his body to grasp his thighs, parting them wider. He vaguely wondered if the king had put a spell on him, as his limbs felt like they were bound by heavy weights, and his mind was cloudy. Yet he doubted, somehow, that Thranduil was using magic; it would wound the king's pride to have to make a conquest in such a way. Glorfindel would have liked an excuse for the way his body responded to the king's touch, for the immediacy of his arousal and the shortness of his breath, but he knew in truth that he had none. He had drunk too much that night, but he was still reasonably sober; he was exhausted, but not to incapacitation. It was his own attraction he fought, and although the muscles stood out on his arms as he still tried to push Thranduil from him, he knew he was losing because something in him wanted this.   
  
It was not until a careful touch slid against his most private area that Glorfindel managed to regain some control. No. If he did this, gave in to what his body so badly desired, he would lose the most precious thing in his life--if he had not managed to do that already. For over a week now he had been like one who had lost a part of himself, an amputee on a battlefield who toils on despite a mortal wound. Nothing he had tried had healed the emptiness in his heart and neither would this. In one of the most difficult actions he could remember in a long time, Glorfindel forced himself to relax and, when Thranduil slightly eased his hold in response, he pushed him hard to the side and rolled off the bed.   
  
He glanced back at the king to see if more persuasion would be needed, and immediately wished he had not. Thranduil was reclining on his side, his beautiful body on careless display, erect but uninhibited as few, even among the elves, could manage to be. The golden satin of the sheets paled next to that of his skin, made even more alluring than usual by the faint sheen of perspiration he wore from their activities. His emerald eyes held exasperation, but also, Glorfindel thought, a glimmer of respect.   
  
"This is check, then, I take it?"  
  
"This is not a game, Thranduil." Glorfindel swept up his outer robe from where it had been casually tossed over a chair's back, and struggled into it. He was hard and ached, and the stiff material made him wince as it dragged over him, but that was a minor concern. The immediate issue was to get as far from Thranduil as possible as quickly as he could, before the king's beauty and his own weakness caused him to falter.   
  
"Oh, but it is, seneschal. And one I intend to win. You belong with me, you are just too blind to see it."  
  
"So this is for my own good?''  
  
Thranduil laughed and, although it was almost impossible for Glorfindel to believe, it was a genuine, amused sound. "As I believe I told you once before."  
  
"I don't happen to see it that way." Glorfindel hated Thranduil for his easy grace in the circumstances, and even more for his confident assurance that he would, eventually, be the victor. "You can't always have what you want." He would have preferred a snappier reply, but he was in no shape for witty repartee. It took all his willpower just to turn away from the vision on the bed and somehow make it to the double doors of the room. "You are in check for a reason, Thranduil."   
  
The king's tone was light, but there was steel beneath it. "Perhaps. But it is not yet check mate."  
  
* * *  
  
The black velvet of Erestor' sleeve stroked softly across his chest, a teasing touch that barely registered, yet Elrohir felt his face flush as the scrap of a tunic he wore was slowly brushed off his shoulders, baring him to the waist. He tried to remember that these were the same hands that had bathed him as a child, had held him when he suffered from nightmares as an adolescent, had bandaged his scrapes and calmed his fears . . . but it was impossible to ignore the sensations they were building in him now. No, this was insane! He didn't think of Erestor this way, he never had, so what was wrong with him?   
  
That dark head lowered and a rough tongue, like a cat's, licked tantalizingly across his nipples and down his chest, as a fall of raven dark hair spilled all over him. He finally managed to ask, in a voice that was barely audible even to him, what Erestor thought he was doing. There was no reply. He shivered slightly, aroused and trembling, as that tongue swept lower, teasing around his navel and then at the fragile silk barrier that was all that remained of his clothes. He knew he should stop this, should say something, but all he wanted at the moment was not to have to talk at all or even to think, but just to submerge himself and his pain in glorious sensation. Was it so wrong, to want to feel completely good for a few minutes?  
  
Elrohir voiced no complaint as the jeweled belt he wore was slipped off and dropped to the floor. A few seconds later and the remainder of his tunic followed, slithering silently from the bed. Elrohir tried to close his eyes, to fool his brain as to the identity of the one who began slow, even strokes along his arousal, causing him to breath hard with the effort of control, but he was allowed no such luxury. "Look at me, Elrohir," the air of command in the velvet tones was new, but the voice itself was one he was accustomed to obey. His eyes fluttered open, and he gazed, mesmerized, as Erestor's mouth followed where his hands had explored. He shuddered, hardly believing this was real, yet he could not look away.  
  
In a few minutes, Elrohir no longer cared who pleasured him, but grasped the shining head and pushed it down further where he needed it to be. The gifted tongue soon had him writhing against the softness of the sheets, until all he wanted was to come, to feel no grief, to have no thoughts, except of the deep pulse of desire in his groin. The sensations that followed were mindless, exquisite joy. His nerves all seemed to melt and run together, his veins pulsing with heat and sheer bliss, as he was brought expertly to climax.  
  
And then nothing. Fingers pinched near his base, cruelly denying him the release he sought so passionately, and he regarded his tormentor through stunned, glazed eyes. "What do you feel?"  
  
"Wh-what?" Elrohir moved slightly, but a heavy hand forced him down to the mattress again.   
  
"I asked you a question, Elrohir, so please try to pay attention." The voice, amazingly, was no longer the husky velvet tones of a few minutes before, but instead held the impatient snap of his old tutor, annoyed that he was taking so long to answer a simple question. It was surreal, to say the least. Elrohir just looked at him dumbly, unable to understand any of this. Erestor sighed, and took out a lace-trimmed handkerchief which he ran over his lips. Elrohir almost came from the sight alone, but the fingers did not permit it. "Is there something you want, Elrohir?"  
  
"Y-yes."  
  
"Well?" Erestor cocked an eyebrow at him again, in that oh so familiar way, and some of the languid heat coursing though Elrohir began to fade.  
  
"You know what I want." Elrohir blushed to even think about saying the words, to Erestor of all people.  
  
"I am afraid that mind reading was never one of my specialties."   
  
Elrohir repressed a groan, and wished Erestor to the lowest hall of Mandos for all eternity. Why was he tormenting him like this? "I want to come," he said dully, shame flooding his already rosy face with a new layer of crimson.   
  
"Why?"  
  
Elrohir just looked at him, the fear that perhaps his old tutor had truly gone mad flitting across his brain. "Why?," he repeated in disbelief.  
  
"Yes, why? It's an easy enough question. After all, according to you, since you are not in love with me--you aren't are you?"  
  
"No!," that, at least, was a certainty at the moment.   
  
"Well, then, you should feel nothing. No love means no attraction, isn't that true?" Elrohir looked into the depth of Erestor's black eyes, and saw the beginnings of a spark of humour. "Since you don't love me, what pleasure could I possibly give you?"  
  
Elrohir was beginning to be in serious pain, and those wicked, laughing eyes were not helping him. He dragged his conscious mind back into operation, ready though he was to scream at the effort. "You're saying this is no different than the way Glorfindel feels about the king."  
  
Erestor smiled. "You pass," he commented, and suddenly released him.   
  
* * *  
  
Camthalion saw his master rise from the bed, casually wiping his hand on his handkerchief, as the young one spilled himself all over the sheets. Quickly, before Erestor could discern his presence, Cam gently closed the door and retreated into the dimness of the hallway. As he navigated down the darkened stairs, he did not even try to keep a smile from breaking out over his usually stoic features. An interesting evening, indeed.  
  
TBC 


	14. Chapter Fourteen

Title: Wild Justice 14/?   
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer@hotmail.com  
Rating: R   
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline and my precious, evil mind.   
Feedback: Please!  
Warnings: BDSM.   
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused.   
  
* * *  
  
Cool air drifted across Haldir's sleep-warm skin, and he sighed softly and buried himself further under the sheets. The sun was almost straight overhead, however, and a shaft fell into his eyes from the window, worrying him into consciousness. He woke to a foggy feeling in his head and an instinctive knowledge that something was wrong. He was drowsily comfortable in Gildor's bed in the royal talan, and although the position of the sun told him that it was late morning, he was not on duty this rotation and did not have to be up at a particular time . . .   
  
A sharp pain in his ankle distracted him momentarily from the nagging thought about time that was floating around his brain. He sat up in bed and grabbed his foot, only to have a sharp bolt of agony flash up his leg. After some creative cursing, he examined the limb more carefully, noting the heavy bandage that had been wrapped around it, and suddenly everything came flooding back.   
  
"By Elbereth! He tricked me!" Haldir jumped out of bed, wondering if there was still time to catch up with the rescue party, only to have his foot collapse under him and send him sprawling on the floor, right beside a pair of tiny green leather slippers cleverly made to resemble folded leaves. Looking up, his gaze traveled over a solid if rather thin body, also wrapped in green, to a tense, disapproving face under a mountain of dark red braids. Gildor must have helped Elwyyda with her coiffure, Haldir thought dazedly, as he'd never seen that number of messy braids on anyone at one time. "What are YOU doing here?"  
  
The little dwarf drew herself up and stepped around him, balancing a large tray in her hands. She was resolutely not looking at him, and Haldir suddenly realised that he was nude. With another curse, he pulled a sheet from the bed at the same time that Elwydda sat the tray down on it. The result was strawberry jam filled pastries all over him and a very annoyed dwarf. "I brought that all the way up from the kitchens! And now look!"   
  
Haldir was finding it difficult to maintain his dignity while seated in the floor, naked and covered with food, but he tried nonetheless. Gathering the jam-stained sheet about him, he gingerly stood, taking his weight on his uninjured foot, and glared at the intruder. "Why. Are. You. Here?"  
  
"Gildor told me to look after you, so I am." There was something in the little creature's eyes that looked a great deal like fanaticism to Haldir. Wonderful. He should have known that his lover's appalling taste in pets was going to rebound on him sooner or later.  
  
"I do not need your assistance."  
  
Haldir's words had absolutely no effect, and the bothersome creature continued to stand, fists on hips, regarding him sternly. "Gildor told me to take care of you," she repeated slowly and unnecessarily distinctly, as if speaking to a dim-witted child. "He left with the others and won't be back for a time. Until he returns, I will nurse you." She looked almost as appalled by the idea as Haldir felt, but there was a steely glint of determination in her eyes. "I will go and get you another breakfast. Wash and dress," she ordered, before stomping out in the inelegant way of her people.   
  
Haldir looked after her, disbelief and annoyance on his features. Not only had Gildor lied, he had also saddled Haldir with the most irritating nurse possible, then wisely left the city. Who did he think he was, to treat him so? Haldir remembered his lover's bright, concerned eyes from the night before, and the murmured assurances he had made as he gave him "just a draught to ease the pain." Gildor had known his lover intended to go with the rescue party despite his disability, and had carefully insured that he had no opportunity to do so. Haldir should have known, but the pain had distracted him, not to mention Gildor's gentle attentions that, he now remembered, had been cut short by the effects of the drug.  
  
Haldir fell back onto the bed, jam and all, and threw an arm over his eyes. "I am never going to have sex again."  
  
"Oh, I wouldn't take any bets on THAT, brother!"  
  
Haldir looked up to see Rumil laughing at him from the doorway. "You are supposed to be on rotation."  
  
"I am. My current assignment is here at the palace, watching over a march warden who manages to avoid injury in countless death-defying situations, then ends up bedridden due to . . . well, I'm SURE the story I heard was exaggerated. And what's this?" Rumil lifted a bit of jammy pastry from Haldir's stomach. "Gildor not finish the job?"  
  
Haldir didn't bother to glare at him. It was vintage Rumil, and no lecture ever made a dent in his brother's horrible sense of humour. "Go. Away."  
  
"And leave you to the treacherous villainies being hatched by that dastardly dwarf? She looked truly dangerous to me . . . all three feet of her."  
  
"I do NOT need a KEEPER."  
  
"Of course you do. If I left, what would be the first thing you'd do? Shove your broken ankle into a boot, commandeer a horse, and ride off to save the day--or to get yourself killed, more like. Sorry, but I promised Gildor . . . "  
  
"Gildor! I can't believe he did this to me."  
  
"He cares about you. And for your sake, I hope you return the feelings, because I received the distinct impression that he plans to be around for a while."  
  
Haldir took the wet cloth Rumil handed him and began to clean himself up. "We'll see. First we're going to have a talk about just who is in control of this relationship."  
  
Rumil laughed and picked a morsel of pastry out of Haldir's hair. "Oh, I don't know, brother. It seems to me that has already been determined."  
  
* * *  
  
It was a bright, clear day with a brilliant sun shining from a vividly blue sky, and Elrohir regarded it resentfully. To match his mood, the weather should have been overcast and grey, maybe even raining a little, with a few carrion eaters circling around overhead. As it was, the happy sunshine almost seemed to be mocking him. Elrohir sat glumly on his horse, determinedly not looking in Glorfindel's direction, and wondered if his life could get any more bleak. He was too young to have messed things up this badly. One would think it would take more than fifty cycles to completely ruin one's whole existence.  
  
Elrohir kept his horse's pace slow enough to avoid going anywhere near his one-time lover, who rode near the front of the party. He also stayed as far away from Erestor as possible, who was fortunately riding at Glorfindel's side making it easy for him to avoid them both. Elrohir had hoped that his new-found attraction to his old tutor had been nothing more than a moment of madness inspired by his hurt and humiliation, but that morning he had discovered that it was impossible to go back to seeing Erestor the old way. The fall of his inky hair had been plaited neatly at his neck as usual, but Elrohir was reminded of the way it had felt against his skin, as heavy and supple as raw silk. Although Erestor was wearing one of his usual old fashioned, high-necked robes, this one in a deep plum colour that was almost black, for some reason it did not make him seem old or fat as before. No, not at all.   
  
Elrohir shook his head--he must be going mad. What was it that caused this attraction for his former tutors anyway? Was he just sick? Everyone else fell for elves their own age--even Elladan had managed that easily enough, and he was certainly no prodigy. Of course, where Erestor was concerned, Elrohir knew he had spoken the truth when he denied being in love with him, but the huge shift in perception was still hard to deal with, and as for Glorfindel . . . Seeing him with dappled sunlight falling over his long, unbound hair that morning had caused a very strange reaction. Elrohir had not felt pain or guilt or any of the emotions he could have understood and had half expected. Instead, something in his brain had simply decided to shut down, as if his emotions had switched off in self-defense. A strange sort of calm had filled him, but it was an uneasy sensation, as if he was a dam bowing with the effort of holding back the spring rains.   
  
Yet he had felt something when Glorfindel approached him as he was mounting his horse, and demanded to know what he thought he was doing. An edge in his lover's tone had rubbed Elrohir the wrong way, and he had replied more strongly than he intended.  
  
"I am riding along, as should be obvious."   
  
"I don't think that is a good idea. Your father . . . "  
  
"I don't recall asking you, seneschal," Elrohir had snapped, desperate to end the conversation before the bubble of repressed emotion in his chest erupted in who knew what kind of display. He had quickly taken a place in the gathering throng, anxious to put as much space between them as possible; Glorfindel had not followed him, and they had not spoken since.  
  
Elrohir glanced about in an effort to keep his eyes off the tempting sight ahead, and noticed that another familiar face, obvious because of his dark hair in the sea of blonds, rode nearby. He suddenly had an idea. He needed advice, but from someone considerably less daunting than Erestor had suddenly become, and too kind to laugh openly in his face. "Gildor!" The agent obligingly reined back his horse slightly to come up alongside. Elrohir had no idea how to ask what he wanted, so he started with a less personal query. "How is Haldir?"  
  
"As well as can be expected. I gave him half of your sleeping draught last night, so at least he rested."  
  
"Half? But a quarter of the bottle would have been sufficient to ease the pain and help him sleep. I thought I told you that."  
  
Gildor smiled at him guilelessly. "I'm sure you did."  
  
Elrohir sighed inwardly--it was going to be another one of those days when nothing made sense, he could already feel it. Deciding that he probably couldn't make things any worse no matter what he said, he took the plunge. "Er, Gildor, I was wondering . . . that is, you and Haldir . . . you are rather close, aren't you?"  
  
Gildor gave him a sunny smile. Really, Elrohir thought, blinking, he was rather attractive when he did that. He immediately gave himself a mental slap. Honestly, he'd be fantasizing about Elladan next! "Yes, we are."  
  
"So, you don't . . . that is . . . I know it is none of my business, but I was just wondering . . ."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
Elrohir took a deep breath and rushed it before he gave up in cowardice. "Soyoudon'tworryabouthisotherlovers?"  
  
"What?" Gildor looked puzzled.  
  
"His other lovers. I mean to say, well, Haldir has had a few . . . that is, his reputation . . . " Elrohir blushed. Elbereth, but he was bad at this!  
  
To his surprise, Gildor just looked at him compassionately. It suddenly occurred to Elrohir that perhaps his quarrel with Glorfindel was not exactly a secret. "I really don't worry about that," Gildor assured him. "The past is past."  
  
This seemed an amazingly lackadaisical attitude to Elrohir. Relationships didn't just HAPPEN. They had to be planned carefully and worked at--really, the way some people managed their lives . . . He did feel rather sorry for Gildor, however, who would probably be cheated on by Haldir within a month if it hadn't happened already. "That is . . . a remarkably calm attitude."  
  
Gildor patted Elrohir briefly on the shoulder. "Love finds a way," he told him earnestly. Elrohir bit back a sharp retort; platitudes he could have done without. Still, he supposed he should be pleased that Gildor wasn't giving him a dressing down for probing into his private life. The fact that he worked for Elrond did not mean that he had to endure any snooping by his son.   
  
Elrohir found his eyes straying of their own accord to the duo riding near the front of the column and he sighed. Just looking at Glorfindel caused a wave of longing and desire to dance along his nerves, so strong that it felt as if his bones had liquefied inside his skin. Strangely enough, he missed their mental closeness even more, the easy familiarity, the laughter, the warmth . . .   
  
"You should talk to him." Elrohir had almost forgotten Gildor's presence, but the words brought him back to the present, and a much less appealing place it was, too. "This isn't my place to say, but I know the damage a small amount of miscommunication can cause. A conversation, however difficult, is preferable to a life time of pain, is it not?"  
  
The voice was so gentle, and the words were spoken with such conviction that Elrohir could not be angry with Gildor. Elrohir had initiated the conversation because he wanted advice--now that he had it, complaining seemed fruitless, and the words did make sense. Avoiding the issue was not going to solve anything, and Elrohir had never been a coward. They would be riding all day, perhaps pausing long enough at mid-day for a brief bite of lembas, although perhaps not under the circumstances. But they would stop that night. They could not afford to be exhausted when they arrived at the mountain, not considering what probably awaited them there. So, that meant he had all day to decide what he was going to say to Glorfindel.  
  
* * *  
  
Rumil heard shouts coming from Gildor's room, and ran flat out down the corridor. He couldn't imagine what could possibly be threatening Haldir in the middle of the royal talan, but his shrieks indicated mortal peril. He skidded to a halt outside the open door of his brother's room, then just stood there, his long knives falling limply to his side and his mouth open in amazement. Oh, Gildor, he thought reverently, remind me to do something really nice for you when you get back.   
  
Haldir lay in bed with his foot elevated on an enormous pile of pillows. He was covered with enough blankets to suffice in the coldest winter, even thought the weather was quite temperate at the moment. A fire burned in the grate, adding another source of warmth to the room, which perhaps explained the red flush on his brother's face. Then again, that could have been anger at the diminutive figure sitting astride his chest, forcibly spooning soup down him. Haldir was so enmeshed in the blankets that his efforts to throw her off were having little effect, nor were the curses he uttered between every mouthful.   
  
"You WILL finish this," she was saying, riding out another attempt to send her sprawling, and Rumil watched with glee as the large bowl she held was slowly emptied. He doubted if much of it had actually ended up inside his brother, as the two of them were fairly drenched, but he supposed it was the thought that counted. "There. Do you need anything else?"  
  
Rumil winced at a few of the suggestions his brother offered--really, she was female, after all--but the comments seemed to have no effect. Of course, Rumil considered, after a lifetime spent around orcs, even Haldir at his worst probably seemed refined.  
  
"Then I will go get your medicine," she threatened--by her tone the benign phrase took on that connotation--and she swept out the door without another word.   
  
"Feeling better, brother?" Rumil asked, making no effort whatsoever to restrain his grin.   
  
Haldir regarded him balefully from within his woolen cocoon. "Get this off me."  
  
Rumil clucked a tongue disapprovingly as he moved to do as bid. "You really should learn some manners, you know. Every time I see you these days, you're covered in food." He finally managed to unwind the sticky blankets, but then had to sit down to keep from collapsing with mirth. "Oh . . . oh, you ARE well nursed, brother!"  
  
"Be silent." Haldir glared at him, but his appearance ruined the effect. When Rumil had left the room for lunch, Haldir had been sleeping soundly. Elwyyda had dosed his breakfast with something, and she had apparently not missed the opportunity his unconscious state offered to properly nurse him. And an impressive job she had made of it, too, Rumil thought admiringly, before he slipped from his seat and literally rolled in the floor, gasping for breath and giggling madly. Oh, this was truly priceless!  
  
"Bring me something appropriate to wear." It was an order, and as such would usually have made Rumil bristle--his brother had a bad habit of forgetting that Rumil was not his to command when they were not on duty--but under the circumstances he decided to overlook it. He found Haldir's clothing neatly hung in Gildor's large wardrobe, while the other elf's attire was mostly wadded up on the floor or hanging halfway off its hangers. Rumil refrained from comment, however, and picked out a tasteful nightshirt of the deep blue Haldir favoured, and brought it to him. "No," his brother looked annoyed, "I am not an invalid! Bring me traveling attire."  
  
"And just where, may I ask, were you planning to go?"   
  
"You know that perfectly well. I would have already left if that cursed dwarf had not managed to drug me. Probably put it in the tea. In any case, I can catch up with them on a fast horse if I ride all night."  
  
"Orc attacks make it too dangerous to travel at night, as you well know," Rumil commented patiently, as getting upset never worked with his big brother. Of course, he considered, as Haldir rapidly began undoing some of the countless tiny braids with which Elwyyda had dressed his hair, logic usually didn't either. Haldir was undoubtedly the most stubborn elf of his acquaintance. "You aren't going anywhere," Rumil informed him, deciding on a more direct approach. "I will tie you to the bed myself if necessary, and post a guard at the window!"  
  
Haldir glowered at him, but Rumil ignored it. His brother had made a lifetime's work of telling him and Orophin whenever they were acting foolishly; it was a pleasure to be able to return the favour. Besides, it was difficult to take him seriously when he was wearing a heavy quilted shirt in a mustard shade, and a pair of overlarge green woolen leggings that could not possibly have been his. A blue scarf had been knotted about his neck to keep off any stray chills, as if anything could have penetrated that costume, and an orange vest was securely buttoned over his chest. His uninjured foot sported a bright red sock, while the other had at least twelve layers of bandages wound about it in intricate folds. Rumil briefly thought that he might need to have a talk with Elwyyda about proper invalid attire before his brother roasted to death, as well as testing her for colour blindness.  
  
"You wouldn't dare."  
  
Rumil just gave him an arch look. Orophin might be scared witless of their elder brother's rage at the moment, but Rumil had no such worries. Haldir was in no shape to carry out any threats at the moment, and he was deranged if he thought his sibling was bluffing. Well, he'd find out the truth soon enough. "You would be of no use anyway," Rumil told him, tugging the suffocating vest and tunic over his head and replacing them with the lighter cotton sleep shirt. "He'll be alright, you know," he added in a softer tone, seeing his brother's genuinely apprehensive expression.  
  
"Of course he will!," Haldir barked, "He has been a trusted agent in Lord Elrond's service for five hundred years! I think that says something about his competence."  
  
"But you're still worried about him." It wasn't a question; Rumil could see his brother trying, and mostly failing, to repress frantic concern.  
  
"They don't know what they will find when they arrive. And you weren't there--it is a horrid place, Rumil."  
  
"Gildor survived it before. He will again. And it will be better if he is not distracted trying to protect you."  
  
"I do not need . . . "  
  
"Normally, no, but at the moment? Even you will not heal a badly broken ankle in a few days. It will be a week or more before you can even stand without pain, and probably one to two beyond that before you can fight and jump and run about." Rumil plumped up Haldir's pillows and forced him back against them. His brother still looked a bit strange, as dozens of braids remained in his hair and none had been done expertly, so that little pieces of hair escaped in a frazzled halo all about his head. He resembled a doll Rumil had seen an elfling playing with once, which had been carried about by the hair for so long that its tiny mane stood up of its own accord, in all directions. It was odd and a little discomfiting to see his usually so composed brother looking wide eyed and somewhat lost, his anxiety apparent in his clear blue eyes. "Don't worry Haldir; they will be fine." Rumil continued to make soothing comments as he smoothed the thinnest of the blankets back over his brother's reclining form. He just hoped he was speaking the truth.  
  
TBC 


	15. chapter 15

Title: Wild Justice 15/?   
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer@hotmail.com  
Rating: R   
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline and my precious, evil mind.   
Feedback: Please!  
Warnings: BDSM.   
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused.   
  
* * *  
  
"You have to tell him."  
  
Glorfindel glanced sideways at Erestor, who was looking innocent as usual, flicking a speck of dust from his already immaculate sleeve. He was too overwrought to bother pretending that he didn't know what his friend was talking about, although he did glance around to make certain no one was within hearing range. The nearest rider was Lord Celeborn at the head of the column, and he appeared lost in his own thoughts. "It's too soon. We decided . . . "  
  
"Yes, but that was before all this . . . upheaval . . . with Thranduil. I am surprised the king hasn't discerned the truth already. He certainly will if they talk, and eventually--you know Elrohir--he WILL confront him. I barely managed to distract him last night."  
  
"Last night?"  
  
"He saw you with the king, I am not entirely certain how, but he was on his way to break things off with you when I intercepted him." Glorfindel grimaced; he should have known. He was a fool for ever going anywhere near the king's rooms, much less for believing Elrohir would not learn of it; Caras Galadhon had one of the best developed gossip vines he had encountered anywhere. As the average elf's favourite past time was keeping up with what their nobility were doing--and the more scandalous the news the better--he had probably just provided the taverns of the city fodder for at least a decade of speculation. Throw in that scene with Orophin, and his fame would doubtless last most of the rest of the century. Well, at least Erestor's news explained Elrohir's frosty attitude this morning. "You are just fortunate I happened to be returning to the talan at the same time that he was making his way towards the king's chambers--a few minutes more or less, and we would REALLY have a mess."  
  
Glorfindel regarded him sardonically. "What do you call this?"  
  
"A crisis, but a manageable one. It will cease to be so soon, however."  
  
"I thought you had a plan."  
  
Erestor shrugged. "I do, my dear Glorfindel, but these things take time to arrange. Besides, I said I could manage the king; I never said anything about patching things up between the two of you. I've already done my best--I persuaded Elrohir to come along with us because I didn't dare to leave him behind with Thranduil, but . . ."  
  
"You did that? Are you mad?" Glorfindel regarded his friend with genuine anger. Erestor was far too prone to take things on himself, even if they were absolutely none of his concern.  
  
Erestor looked a bit put out. "Well, what else could I do? Besides, it isn't as if he can't take care of himself."  
  
"You don't know what we may be facing . . . "  
  
"Neither do you. But whatever it is, his having a showdown with the king could be infinitely worse."  
  
"Thranduil is not so foolish as to say anything . . . "  
  
Erestor chuckled. "You like him too well, I think."  
  
"I don't like him at all!"   
  
"And you overestimate him." Erestor held up a hand, "I do not mean to malign his intelligence, Glorfindel. Really, for someone who dislikes him so much, you do quickly leap to his defense, don't you? But rather to point out that it must be driving Thranduil wild, trying to understand how you could possibly choose a slip of an elfling over him. Seen from his perspective, your actions are not even remotely comprehensible. He has pursued you for a very long time--he will not easily abandon the chase, and certainly not without proof that he stands no real chance. If he discovers the truth for himself, he will certainly be thrown off guard and is VERY apt to say something to alert Elrohir."  
  
Glorfindel shifted uncomfortably and wished Erestor would make less sense. "Elrohir might well not understand what the king meant, even if he did say something."  
  
Erestor rolled his eyes expressively. "My dear Glorfindel, please! You really must stop living in denial over all this." Erestor adjusted one of his plum suede riding gloves, a habit quite familiar to Glorfindel; his friend tended to fidget when about to say something likely to offend. "We agree that Elrohir is not the same person you remember. Or rather, he is, of course, but he is a much younger version. He doesn't have access to the memories and the wealth of experience they bring as you do. But that does not mean that he has lost any of his native intelligence or quickness. You have fallen into the habit of underestimating him, and fortunately he has been so preoccupied with the usual coming-of-age angst that he has not fully put his mind to the issue at hand. But with or without the king's commentary, he WILL figure it out, and sooner I think, by far, than his father's timetable will permit. So again I say--you HAVE to tell him."   
  
"You know what the consequences could be."  
  
Erestor shrugged. "I also know what they certainly will be if you continue to ignore the problem. It will not simply fade away."  
  
Glorfindel sighed again and rubbed the back of his neck. He had a headache coming on, thanks in a large part to this conversation. He would much prefer a nice, straight forward battle to these types of mind games; cleaving a few orc heads would seem like a holiday compared to the task that faced him. He had hoped to put it off because of the mission, but now that Elrohir had decided to come along, there was no longer any valid excuse. "I would have preferred it had you mentioned this before we left. If I am to do anything so drastic, I would like to at least have Lord Elrond's permission, if not his actual presence."  
  
"Elrond is not in any shape to make a decision of this type at the moment, nor should he be burdened by it."  
  
Glorfindel regarded Erestor carefully. There was a tense quality in his friend's voice that he did not like. Of course, they were both worried about Elrond. Glorfindel had looked in on him before they departed and had been relieved to see him sleeping at last, curled up in the large bed beside Gil-Galad, but he had looked exhausted. Indeed, with the dark circles under his eyes and the unhealthy pallor of his complexion, Glorfindel had thought that he did not look much better than the High King himself. Nonetheless, there was something in Erestor's manner that seemed odd . . . as if there was more troubling him than just anxiety on Elrond's behalf. Glorfindel almost didn't say anything, as he had enough to worry about at the moment and Erestor in a mood was not a pretty sight, but his fellow counselor was a good friend--most of the time--and he owed him his aid if he wanted it. "Is there something troubling you, Erestor?"  
  
Black eyes swung to him, fairly sparking with irritation. "Something bothering me? Why, no, Glorfindel, nothing at all! What could possibly be upsetting me? Except perhaps the High King suddenly back from the grave, us going to confront a few thousand orcs in their own lair, Elrohir about to be tipped into insanity, Thranduil running loose plotting the Valar alone know what, and Elrond on the verge of a nervous breakdown . . . No, I can't think why I should be feeling any unusual stress, can you?"  
  
Glorfindel hid a smile, and decided to let the matter drop. Erestor would tell him in his own way, when he chose to do so, or he would not. Cajoling Elrond's chief counselor into doing something he did not like was never an easy task, and Glorfindel rarely attempted it. He certainly was in no mood to do so today. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw Elrohir and Gildor riding together, chatting amicably. The sight reassured him--certainly Elrohir had enough protection on this journey--and he vowed to talk to him whenever Lord Celeborn called a halt to the day's ride. Erestor was right; this could not be allowed to continue.  
  
* * *  
  
Elrond awoke to a crick in his back and a cramp in his leg, neither of which were surprising considering the awkward position in which he'd finally managed to get to sleep. He lifted himself slowly up on his arms to check on the king's condition, and was so surprised to find those bright blue eyes open and aware that he almost fell off the bed. They regarded each other for a very long time without speaking. It was still painful to see the familiar features so wasted, but there was a spark of recognition in the eyes that had not been there before, giving Elrond real hope for the first time.   
  
Yet the king at first made no effort to speak, and Elrond had absolutely no idea what to say or do; his throat had seemingly closed over, making it impossible to speak. The king eventually solved the problem as he so often had in the past, by a simple, elegant gesture. Raising a trembling hand, he gently stroked the side of Elrond's head, twining a curl of dark hair about a finger, while his gaze ran over his herald's face searchingly. Then suddenly he smiled. It was his old, sweet expression, and with it all the years fell away. "Elrond."   
  
Elrond gathered his king into his arms and wept, so relieved that he still could not speak. He allowed himself the luxury of holding him for a time, trying not to concentrate on how insubstantial he felt in his arms, and being very careful not to injure him further. Finally he pulled away slightly to ring the bell pull for a servant, and food and fresh towels soon arrived. Elrond managed to persuade the king to drink some tea with honey and to eat a small amount of fruit and bread. It was almost the first thing he had consumed since his return, and it encouraged Elrond greatly to see it. The king was painfully thin and extremely weak, but his eyes were lucid and he seemed quietly happy to be in Elrond's care.  
  
Carrying him as easily as if he had been a child, Elrond took the high king to the great bathing chamber down the hall. His rooms had their own bath attached, but it was small, and he needed room for both of them. He ran the large, circular tank full to the brim with hot, steamy water, to which he added a large amount of healing herbs, their pleasing fragrance soon permeating the room. He undressed them both and lowered them into the water, keeping the king safely within the circle of his arms as he bathed him. He was somewhat surprised at the blissful expression that passed over the king's features as the hot liquid closed about him. But then, Elrond thought sorrowfully, it had probably been centuries since a true bath had been available to him, at least while he was conscious enough to be aware of it.   
  
Elrond enjoyed himself pampering the king's skin with soothing balms and fragrant oils, simultaneously pouring as much strength as he dared into the wasted body. It seemed to help, for a little colour returned to the pale cheeks and the king managed another weak smile. Elrond allowed hope to wash over him and continued to hold him until the water grew tepid, vowing that he would save this life if there were any arts capable of doing it. After wrapping him in soft towels, Elrond carried his king carefully back to his rooms. He was so intent on his burden that he was almost to the door before he noticed Thranduil loitering in front of it. "Ah, Elrond, good. I was hoping to see the both of you today."  
  
Elrond doubted that a conversation with him had been at the top of Thranduil's list, but he did not contradict him, nor did he protest when the Mirkwood ruler opened the door and then followed him into his chambers. Elrond settled the High King back in bed, dressing him hurriedly and hoping Thranduil would decide to go away. When the quiet presence behind him showed no sign of taking the hint, he became a bit more obvious. "Thranduil, the king is still unwell. He needs to rest, and hopefully to eat a good deal in order to regain his strength. Perhaps your visit can wait?"  
  
"I do not think so. I am concerned for Gil-Galad's condition, of course . . . " Elrond tried to suppress his instinctive flinch at Thranduil's easy use of the king's name. To address him or speak about him so familiarly was a privilege few had had in the days of his power. Elrond did not even feel himself worthy to utter the name, after the way in which he had failed his sovereign, and it seemed disrespectful to the point of profanity to hear those syllables from Thranduil's lips. Had his father not ignored Gil-Galad's orders at Barad-dur, and attacked without the support of the rest of the elvish host, the battle might have gone far differently. Elrond had spent centuries telling himself that the father's folly was not the son's fault, and that Oropher had paid for his poor judgment with his life, but he could not stop his breath catching now. Thranduil paused at the sound, but did not comment. "However, I do think it important that we discover if there is any information he can give us. Have you tried to question him?"  
  
Elrond kept his temper with difficulty. "He is hardly in any condition for that."  
  
Thranduil seated himself on the chair beside the bed as if he had not heard. Gil-Galad regarded him placidly, and the Mirkwood king stared back with the same composure, giving no sign of any shock at the High King's condition. Yet his voice was somewhat softer when next he spoke. "Many elves are about to walk into the unknown, Elrond, your son and father-in-law at their head. I would think you would at least want to try."  
  
"My son?" Elrond felt a sudden sinking in his stomach. Why had no one told him of this?  
  
"Elrohir," Thranduil confirmed. "I saw him leave with them this morning. Obviously, it was not my place to interfere, but I did wonder if he had your permission." Thranduil saw Elrond's expression and smiled reassuringly. "Do not worry for his safety--five hundred of my best warriors, including my son Legolas, are meeting them on the way. Yet I would feel better knowing what dangers await them, would you not? Celeborn made it clear that he did not require my company on this quest, so I am helping in the only way I can." Thranduil held out a hand. "Will you accept my aid?"  
  
Elrond knew what the king wanted, and although he would have much preferred to postpone this, Thranduil's words were logical. The blond Elda reached out a hand, which looked unbelievably tanned and healthy next to the pale ones on the blanket, and grasped one of the high king's. Elrond took Thranduil's proffered hand, and also clasped the remaining one of the king's. The triangle complete, he closed his eyes and tried to concentrate, turning inward in an effort to focus his energies and stamp down his panic. When he had tried this before, just a tentative touch on first seeing the king again, the result had been extreme pain and unconsciousness, and he had learned practically nothing. Of course, he had Thranduil's support now, but the first experience had made him wary. This sort of merging of minds was always difficult, for few had Galadriel's innate skill, and many times Elrond had known it to fail completely. With the high king still so weak, it was unlikely that they would be able to extract anything useful . . .   
  
Without warning the world fell away and Elrond found himself plunged into a maelstrom of sights and sounds and colours, all swirling together far too quickly for him to follow. He vaguely sensed Thranduil's presence, but could not discern the high king at all, nor could he even feel the hand that he hoped he still grasped. A vortex was rushing towards him at a terrific speed, and Elrond was powerless to do anything but let it come.   
  
* * *  
  
Gildor felt his usual delight in the beauty of Arda, glistening under a blanket of Ithil's light, steal over him. The evening breeze was cool and perfumed with flowers, underneath the more disturbing scents, and somewhere nearby he heard a lonely loon call out mournfully for its mate. He felt a little like that, too, hoping Haldir was all right and not too upset with him over his little deception. Absentmindedly, Gildor hacked an orc's head from its shoulders and dodged the fountain of blood that followed the arc of his knife.   
  
Slipping into a fighting trance, which focused his concentration to the point that time itself seemed to slow down, Gildor surveyed the field before him. He sidestepped a delicate flower that shone silvery white in the starlight, reflecting that this was really the sort of evening he would have liked to share with his lover. Ithil was almost full and he could see himself and Haldir walking hand in hand over the fields, perhaps pausing to rest beside the small stream their party had passed a while back, and reveling in the lush sensation of the green glory all around them. He felt an arrow hiss by his ear, but did not bother to dodge it; it had been ill shot, and missed him by almost an inch. He somersaulted over a group of three orcs, slicing through the throats of two of them as he did so, then pausing to bury a knife in the back of the third before wrenching it free.  
  
Dodging, leaping and weaving through the seemingly endless sea of goblins surrounding him, Gildor used the protruding root of a large oak as a springboard to propel himself into trees, the limbs of which criss-crossed their campsite like a canopy. It was a beautiful area, and Gildor briefly admired the patterns the moonlight cast through the branches as he aimed an arrow. A large orc fell lifeless below him and a second later another, which had been trying to copy Gildor's run up the oak's trunk, followed it into whatever afterlife awaited these creatures. Gildor then loosed almost his whole quiver in quick succession, each arrow finding a mark in the squirming mass below, only pausing occasionally to run along the tree tops from branch to branch, whenever the orcs' fire began to concentrate on his previous location.  
  
Elrohir's bashful query came back to him as he caught sight of the young Peredhil doing quite well against two huge orcs, whom he was battling up on the ridge over the camp. Gildor smiled at him--the young one would be quite a warrior some day if he kept this up--and sent an arrow into the throat of the larger of Elrohir's opponents. Unlike the young one seemed to believe, the problem with his relationship with Haldir was not competition from other elves, but rather the pressure of their combined responsibilities. Of course, these past few weeks had been unusually busy, but even knowing that Gildor could not keep from sighing slightly in frustration. They had, after all, just begun their relationship, yet had had almost no time to spend together. He reflected that he really would like to arrange a few weeks of free time with Haldir as soon as possible. He envisioned them enjoying the delights of Caras Galadhon--the shops, the restaurants, the concerts--without constant interruptions. It did not seem likely, though, with events as they were.  
  
Almost out of arrows, Gildor decided to conserve a couple for an emergency and dropped back down to join the hand-to-hand combat below. Lord Celeborn was just to his right, looking especially gleeful as he ran two orcs through with a single thrust of his sword. He then spun off to the side, hacking at his attackers left and right, a satisfied gleam in his silver eyes. Deep in his fighting trance, Gildor saw the approach of an attempted trap---two orcs sneaking up on his left while another tried to distract him from in front--almost as if it was happening in slow motion. Instead of running at him as was probably the case, they seemed to be casually loping in his direction, giving him plenty of time to decide how to deal with the threat. Gildor noticed with displeasure that scuffling boots had eradicated his campfire, and the pot of stew he had been cooking when the attack came was overturned in the dirt. As he started forward, he noticed another problem. He had drawn off his boots after they stopped for the night and now a sharp rock pierced his foot, causing him to glance down in annoyance.   
  
It was that glance that was his mistake. As Gildor bent over to remove the rock, he felt a heavy blow to his back. Falling to the ground, he lost his concentration and dropped out of the trance. Events immediately sped up and he just barely managed to roll out of the way of the huge club that smashed down where his head had been a second before. The pain in his back was an arrow, for it broke off as he rolled over, causing agony to rip its way up his spine and along his nerve endings, spreading numbness throughout his body. He almost dropped his knives in the shock, but retained hold on them at the last second, even managing to sink one to the hilt in the belly of the nearest attacking orc.   
  
Unfortunately its death cry alerted others, and seeing an elf on the ground, two more of the creatures joined the hunt, making a total of four now concentrating on him. Gildor looked about, but there was no help nearby and he could not summon enough concentration to fall back into his trance. At the last second, an arrow pierced the helmet of the orc nearest him, which had raised its sword to finish him off, while another almost severed the neck of the beast right behind him. Gildor saw Elrohir, wearing a fierce expression, firing again from the ridge, and he assumed that at least one of the arrows had been his. The other had come from a different direction, but it also bore the black fletching of Imladris, so either Lord Erestor or Lord Glorfindel had noticed his distress. Gildor rolled again, avoiding the third orc's attack, then another of Elrohir's arrows whizzed by, barely missing the creature, and Gildor took advantage of its distraction to bury a knife in its throat. Taking up the fallen orc's sword, Gildor hacked at the legs of his final opponent, taking one off completely and slicing halfway through the other. The creature fell, screaming, and impaled itself on one of Gildor's knives.   
  
The immediate threat was gone, but the body of the last orc landed heavily on top of him, pressing the broken shaft of the arrow even further into his back and causing excruciating pain. Gildor managed with difficulty to throw the creature off, as he was virtually helpless pinned under it, but when he tried to stand he found that his legs did not work properly. He managed to drag himself over to the trunk of a nearby tree, where at least he was shielded on one side from attack, and notched his last arrow. The pain, although extreme, he could handle, but not being able to aid in the battle was true torment. Fortunately, one of the Galadrim noticed his predicament and tossed him an additional supply of arrows, enabling Gildor to bring down a few more orcs before the rest of them decided to flee the battlefield.   
  
An elf staggered to his knees nearby and Gildor caught him as he fell. Two orc arrows stuck out of his back, and his eyes were vacant. Gildor laid him as carefully as he could on the ground, but knew this one was beyond his help. The arrows themselves had done damage, but the poison that tipped them was enough to finish anyone who did not receive prompt treatment. Gildor was not certain if the arrow he carried had been poisoned or not, but he suspected that it had. Of course, he had not received a double dose like the unfortunate elf at his side, but still . . . he watched the camp, noting the mounds of orc corpses with detached satisfaction, but felt the world going dim. He thought of Haldir again, and hoped he would not grieve for him too badly. It was unfortunate that they had to be separated so soon after finding each other, when they had waited so long to come together. And even more regrettable was the fact that he had never really told his lover how much he meant to him. It was always difficult to find words to express that level of adoration, but now he wished that he had tried more often anyway.   
  
The tree behind him sent soothing energy along its trunk, and Gildor thanked it nicely even as the scene before him began to grey out. He assured it that the elves would not leave the smelly ones behind to pollute the pretty glade, and was trying to explain that it was invariably their custom to burn all the corpses to prevent disease, when he felt a jolt in the earth as someone landed heavily before him. "Gildor!" He was vaguely aware of hands shaking him, and of some liquid being poured down his throat, but he could not tell who spoke to him. He swallowed the bitter tasting brew automatically, shuddering slightly at the taste, and felt himself being lifted from the ground. Then he knew no more.  
  
* * *  
  
Thranduil strode through the corridors of the royal talan, his long cape billowing out behind him. Elrond called to him and knew the king must have heard, but he did not so much as pause. Elrond hurried down the steps after him, slipping slightly in his haste and in dizziness from their recent experience. "Thranduil! What do you think you're doing?" When the king still ignored him, Elrond grasped his arm and spun him around forcibly. The look in Thranduil's eyes caused him to relax his grip quickly, however.   
  
"Go back to your patient, Elrond. He must be your top priority at the moment." Thranduil drew on heavy leather riding gloves and turned away again, lightly running down the steps in front of the talan. Elrond followed him.  
  
"You cannot do this! Thranduil, be sensible, if you and Celeborn were both caught . . . "  
  
"I have sons to rule for me if I fall, Elrond, and Celeborn has the Lady Galadriel. Our realms will hardly falter should we not return." The king vaulted onto the back of the great black stallion he rode, and regarded Elrond from down his aristocratic nose. "You forget what is at stake."  
  
"But . . . "  
  
Thranduil leaned down to whisper fiercely into Elrond's ear, ignoring the curious stares of passing elves, who rarely saw one of their lords dressed in full mithril armor. "My father, Peredhil," he hissed, "do you remember? He fell at Barad-dur, too, or so I have always believed. Perhaps it is true, perhaps not; after what we just saw, I no longer know what happened that day. But be assured, I intend to find out!"  
  
With a shout, Thranduil and the small party of outriders who followed him left the centre of Caras Galadhon at a full gallop, scattering elves to either side of them, their horses' hooves sparking fire off the smooth white paving stones. Elrond watched them go with a sinking feeling in his breast. But he murmured a prayer for their safety before turning to mount the stairs to the palace.  
  
TBC 


	16. Chapter 16

Title: Wild Justice 16/?   
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer@hotmail.com  
Rating: R   
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline and my precious, evil mind.   
Feedback: Please!  
Warnings: BDSM.   
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused.   
  
* * *  
  
Elladan was growing less and less sure about this all the time. Orophin seemed to know what he was doing, but the heavy cloak he had insisted Elladan wear was itchy and hot and he seriously doubted its necessity. Who in Lorien could possibly care what he and his family did, anyway? Obviously, Orophin was either deluded or playing with him, and either way it worried Elladan, as did the direction they were heading.   
  
They had already passed several fine looking taverns, and Elladan, who had decided he could really use a drink, would have been happy to stop in any of them. But they bypassed the pretentious Silver Tree, which had Lord Celeborn's personal seal of approval prominently displayed on its sign as well as the boast that it served "the finest ale in Arda." But Elladan had not complained as it looked a bit stuffy, with a lot of older elves having chess matches or debating politics loudly enough that he could hear them in the street. If he wanted that sort of thing, he didn't need to go out at all--he could have just stayed at the royal talan.  
  
He had felt like saying something, however, when the much friendlier looking Gwingil was also ignored, as he liked the flirty looking mermaid on its sign, as well as the appearance of several attractive and obviously bored elf-maids lounging on its vine covered terrace. Before he could suggest a few ways to alleviate their ennui, however, Orophin dragged him away, down a small side street that Elladan had never seen before. When they stopped before the dingy looking tavern at the very end of the street, however, Elladan finally baulked.   
  
"Liltadin-Cirth? What kind of name is that for a pub?"   
  
"This is the oldest surviving tavern in Lorien," Orophin told him shortly, pulling him into the shadows of the narrow alley between the dubious looking establishment and the high wall of the city. "Haldir stables his horse nearby, so he comes here often. If he manages to get this far, he's almost sure to stop in for supplies, as I can't see him trying to raid the lord's kitchens in his current state." Orophin adjusted the deep midnight blue hood that concealed Elladan's dark hair and distinctive features. "Just keep your head down. We'll find a quiet table in a dark corner and wait--he's certain to turn up sooner or later."  
  
Elladan doubted this--if he was Haldir and had just left his nurse locked in the wardrobe and his youngest brother bound, gagged and stuffed under the bed, he didn't think he would go anywhere near his usual haunts. But still, Orophin knew him best, so Elladan was willing to trust his judgment, although he wished Haldir patronized a more upscale tavern. This place was a dump.  
  
Elladan followed Orophin into the murky interior, which was lit only by a few horn lanterns giving off a very dim, gold light. He was thankful for the lack of illumination, as it meant that even elvin eyes would have difficulty penetrating his disguise, but it nonetheless made the place a little creepy. Not that it wasn't doing fine in that respect even without the lighting effects. They found a small table in a corner as far from the bar as they could get and Orophin went to get drinks, as Elladan had noticed that the barmaid was none other than Ithilessar, his one time play mate, who was certain to recognise him if he came too close. He hunched down in his heavy robe and waited, looking about for a lack of anything better to do.  
  
The patrons were all elves, although some looked to be from other lands than Lorien. The tavern's position near the city gates meant that it was probably one of the first such establishments visitors encountered. Elladan thought his grandfather should be a little concerned about that, as the place was hardly an advertisement for Lorien's beauty and grace. It must have been built before most if not all of the other city buildings, as its architecture was of a very different type. It didn't even look elvin to Elladan, with rough hewn wooden walls sagging with age and growing a crop of grey-green moss, and a thatched roof appearing in equal need of repair, with several bird's nests visible among the rafters. Apparently appearances didn't lie. A rainstorm began as he sat there, and Elladan soon perceived a cool drip down his collar. He sighed and moved his wooden stool slightly to the left to avoid it. Well, at least that explained how the moss and mildew covering the floorboards survived.   
  
None of the other patrons seemed to notice the rain. The elf at the closest table, a farmer type wearing coarse brown clothing, continued to stare gloomily into his half-empty mug of ale, ignoring the drip that was soon falling onto his head. He sighed heavily now and again, but made no effort to move. A few tables beyond him, a couple of rather loose looking females continued to lounge and gossip, paying no heed to the weather or to anyone else. The only other patron, besides several Mirkwood types who were flirting outrageously with Ithilessar at the bar, was as heavily muffled as Elladan himself and sat at a table in the opposite corner. Occasionally the figure jotted down something in a leather bound book, but did not attempt to approach anyone.  
  
Orophin had just returned with their drinks, a surprisingly good wine which he informed Elladan was only available at this pub due to an exclusive agreement with the vintners, when the door burst open and a group of raucous elves came in, laughing and dropping wet clothing onto tables and over the backs of chairs. Elladan didn't recognise any of them, but by their features and accents, they were Sindar from Lorien. Their leader was a handsome elf with long blond curls, who climbed up on one of the tables and clanked two pewter tankards together for silence.   
  
"I now call this meeting of the Honourable Lorien Gossip Guild to order! Let the merriment begin!" To a chorus of laughter, boos and "get off the table Earon" he hopped gracefully down, leaving room for Ithilessar to place a huge flagon of wine in the table's centre. The elves quickly pushed the other tables to the room's edge, leaving a clear space around the one with the wine, then perched on chairs and tabletops in a happy, jostling circle.   
  
"As lord of this society, I claim first round," Earen said, walking up to the table and hefting the heavy flagon easily.   
  
"Oh no." Orophin groaned quietly. "I forgot this group meets here every Menelya eve."  
  
"What's going on?" Orophin just shook his head and buried his face in his arms, refusing to answer Elladan's query. Luckily, he was soon enlightened anyway, for Ithilessar was pushing a pretty blond Sindarin maiden forward, who Elladan recognised in surprise as Cerebrethil, another one time playmate.   
  
"Wait, wait!" Ithilessar called out, laughing. "We have a gossip virgin with us tonight who doesn't know the rules." Her comments after that were drowned out by a loud chorus of "explain the rules, explain the rules" from the surrounding circle of elves, along with much stamping of feet and pounding of mugs.   
  
"Alright, alright!," Earen held up his arms, laughing. "Bring forth the virgin!" This, of course, elicited a number of ribald comments and more laughter, and Cerebrethil added to the rowdy atmosphere by pinching Earen in a most unvirginal way. He grabbed her wrist and pushed her slightly in front of him, presumably to keep an eye on her. Elladan hid a smile behind his glass; he knew Cerebrethil enough to guess just how well that was likely to work.   
  
"These are the rules of this august company, which ye must respect or face expulsion into the frigid atmosphere of the Silver Tree, where ye shall surely fade from sheer boredom within a sennight. So." Earen handed Celebrethil the flagon, and grinned when she almost dropped it because of the excessive weight. She recovered quickly, however, balancing the huge pitcher gracefully on one hip. "We take things in turn, but as the newest member you will be given the honour of first chance. The idea is to prove our reputation for always knowing all the gossip worth hearing in Lorien. Each of us keeps an ear out for the more interesting news that never makes it into the formal broadsheets, and then saves it up to entertain, er, I mean to inform, our fellow members."  
  
"Get to the point, Earen," someone called, which began a new chant that took some time to die down. Apparently deciding to cut his explanation short or they'd never get to the wine, Earen made an effort at brevity when he again achieved something like order. "All right! All right! All you have to do, my lovely one, is to tell us a story about a recent happening here in the Golden Wood. At the end, we decide whether it is true or false, and if you fool the majority of the company either way, you win a drink. Otherwise, you move to the back of the queue. Understand?"  
  
At Celebrethil's nod, Earen cleared out of the way and left the elf-maid in the centre of the circle. She sat the heavy wine container on the table once more, and then, to Elladan's stunned disbelief, launched into a detailed account of his prowess in the bedroom. He felt his cheeks burning and drew back even further under his hood, resisting the impulse to leap to his feet and choke her pretty neck until her face turned blue. How DARE she? Only the heavy pressure of Orophin's foot on his kept him from acting out the impulse, especially when she went on to rate him "a weak seven, although to be fair, we were all very drunk at the time."  
  
A variety of catcalls answered this tale, which the group unanimously declared a barefaced lie. Elladan was feeling somewhat better until an elf called Mirimon called out their reason, "Come now, Cele, everyone in Lorien knows the young Peredhil is seeing Orophin of the Guard."  
  
"And I hear he rates him a ten!," another male elf said, laughing.   
  
Elladan reached across the table and poked Orophin on the shoulder. "Is that true, did you actually say that?"   
  
Orophin looked up, his face mottled red with suppressed laughter. "Don't get a big head. This group is NOT to be trusted about anything!"  
  
Elladan wondered if that was true, however, as member after member of the drinking club took their turns, collectively managing to piece together a good deal of the goings on at the royal talan. A tall blond named Elemmakil, who owned a weaving shop, told all about the visit of Gildor and the dwarf, and won a large drink because no one believed Gildor had spent a fortune buying her such an expensive piece of fabric. A flirty elf maid called Sárince described Glorfindel's encounter with Orophin, but it won her no wine, as it was apparently old news--"even the stiffs at the Silver Tree know THAT one," someone commented. A thin male named Alcon also failed to get a free drink, as Erestor's playground was another poorly kept secret, but a small female with huge blue eyes named Nandelle was more successful because she was able to enlighten the group as to what certain elf lords had been seen using said glade for a few nights ago. No one was sure whether to believe her or not, but the consensus was that a story that good deserved a drink anyway. Elladan, knowing his father, sank a little further down into his chair. He, at least, had no trouble believing it.  
  
And so it went on for the better part of two hours, with Cerebrethil breaking in occasionally to sulkily remark that she had too told the truth, but no one believed her, even when she persuaded Ithilessar to back her up. "Although," the bar maid said consideringly, "I would give him at least an eight, maybe even a nine for effort." While Elladan was trying to figure out just what that meant, and whether or not he should feel insulted, the door opened emitting a gust of rain and a soaking wet figure wrapped in a long grey cloak.   
  
"Haldir!" A pretty maid called Callë waved at him, "Nae saian luume'! More wine, Ithil--this one can drink!"  
  
Haldir ignored her, but made his way over to the bar, where he had a low voiced conversation with Ithilessar. Orophin had risen to his feet, and Elladan followed him, but before they could do anything, two more soaking wet figures burst into the room, both looking mad as Mandos.   
  
"Oh, well," Orophin commented, suddenly sitting back down and picking up his drink. Elladan looked at him strangely until the new arrivals tossed their soaked cloaks aside and began to slowly approach the bar. Elladan noticed that the gossip club had all grown quiet and were watching the scene as avidly as Orophin, so he shrugged and sat down again, waiting to see if the odd duo could bring their prey to ground without aid.   
  
Haldir heard their approach and spun to face them with less than his usual grace, his heavily bandaged foot slowing him down. Before he could move, the smaller of his two pursuers launched herself at him, emitting a hoarse battle cry. The little dwarf grabbed him around the knees and hung on with dogged determination, forcing Haldir to have to hop forward to avoid Rumil's attempts to get a rope around him. He moved quickly despite his impediment, but succeeded only in causing considerable chaos. Rumil wisely stayed between him and the door, blocking the only way of escape, while beginning to spin the rope about lariat style. Elwyyda lost her grip on Haldir's legs after the two of them smashed into the centre table, sending the wine pitcher spinning across the floor, scattering slippery lees everywhere. But she recovered quickly, clambering onto his back when he briefly dropped to one knee, and catching him in a stranglehold around the neck.   
  
"Would you like another round?," someone asked, and Elladan looked about in confusion until he noticed Ithilessar standing beside their table, looking unconcerned and holding a wine bottle. Orophin took it, smelled the cork, smiled and accepted, passing over a coin as the barmaid turned away.   
  
"Drink, El?" Elladan silently held out his glass, then quickly pulled it back as Haldir came stumbling towards them and collapsed onto their table, Elwyyda still clutching his neck. Orophin managed to save the wine, but he looked at Haldir with considerable trepidation, apparently with good reason as one glance at his brother caused Haldir to forget all about Rumil and the dwarf. Growling out a curse, he lunged for him. The bottle went flying as Orophin and Haldir crashed to the floor, but Elladan caught it, stepping nimbly out of the way as the three on the ground began thrashing about. Rumil approached cautiously, the rope raised, just as Haldir and company rolled into the darkness under the table. Rumil crawled under after them.  
  
The table rocked about a good bit, but after a minute or so Elwyyda emerged, straightening her little kirtle and patting her hair. Elladan wordlessly handed her the wine; he felt she deserved it. Next came Orophin, dragging Haldir by the legs, which had been tightly wrapped with sturdy Lorien rope, and finally Rumil, a bruise blossoming on his jaw but with his brother's arms and torso trussed up in a large quantity of rope. Elwyyda leading the way, the bottle tucked safely under her arm, the procession carted a protesting Haldir to the door, where Rumil deposited him briefly on a table while he slid back into his outer robe.   
  
Elladan was not an elf to miss an opportunity. Catching Orophin at the door, he threw back his hood and pulled his lover into a deep kiss, adding a grope on his delectable backside just for good measure. Catching Earen's flabbergasted gaze, he just smiled. "She lied," he commented briefly, before the whole procession trooped out into the rain.  
  
TBC   
  
Liltadin-Cirth: The Dancing Rune (I think).  
Menelya: Friday  
Nae saian luume': It has been too long. 


	17. Chapter Seventeen

Title: Wild Justice 17/?   
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer@hotmail.com  
Rating: R   
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline and my precious, evil mind.   
Feedback: Please!  
Warnings: BDSM.   
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused. A comment on the canonicity of this chapter is appended to the end for those who are interested.  
  
* * *  
  
The first thing Glorfindel noticed when returning to camp was Erestor, who was assisting with the disposal of orc carcasses by viciously kicking one in the direction of one of the larger piles. He sighed, but did not reproach him. He felt rather the same way himself, but did not have the energy to bother with pointless gestures, however satisfying. He and a party of the Galadrim had spent most of the night in pursuit of the fleeing orcs, and had finally managed to hunt down most of them. It had been exhausting, dirty work, more slaughter than battle as the creatures' leaders had fallen at the campsite and the foot soldiers were incapable of forming a battle plan on the run. Still, he preferred it to the job that had been left for Erestor.   
  
He looked about the once beautiful glade in distaste. The air was fetid with the smell of burning orc flesh, which had been discernable from miles away, and charred carcasses were piled in flattened mounds everywhere. Several Galadrim were digging long trenches in the dirt, which would serve as burial troughs for anything the fire did not consume. A group headed by Elrohir, who as his father's long time apprentice in the arts of healing was best suited for the job, was looking after the wounded elves. A wave of relief at seeing him unharmed swept through Glorfindel, but he controlled his features. This was not the time.  
  
"How many did we lose?"   
  
Erestor looked up from kicking a severed orc head into the flames of a pyre and scowled. His previous pristine garments were torn and bloody, and soot covered his features. He looked tired and disgusted, but then surprise and pleasure took over his features as he recognized Glorfindel. "So you're back; high time, too, running off all night, leaving me with all the dirty work to do." Glorfindel found his upper arm gripped tightly for a moment, before his grimace caused Erestor to release him and begin pulling at his torn sleeve. "That is a deep wound. You should have it bandaged at once, before infection sets in."  
  
"How many?" Glorfindel really didn't want to know, but it had to be asked.   
  
Erestor's smile faded, his joy in his friend's safe return muted by the cost of battle. "Too many. Thirteen dead, and four more hovering just this side of Mandos. Most have some wounds at least." Erestor looked somberly at Glorfindel, gesturing around the ruined glade to underscore his words. "That was no casual raiding party, Glorfindel. There had to be more than a thousand of them! We've burned at least five hundred corpses so far, and look at the number that remain!"   
  
Glorfindel glanced at the fly blown piles. "I would say closer to two thousand, but we did not take the time to keep count during the pursuit."  
  
"Someone knew we were coming." This fact was too obvious to need comment, so Glorfindel made none. The amount of blood he had lost from a knife wound in his shoulder and a sword cut across his arm was making it difficult to concentrate in any case. Erestor realised this, and his hard expression softened. "Come, I am taking you to see the healers before you fall over." Glorfindel allowed his friend to slide an arm about him, finding it pleasant to be pampered for a moment although he really did not need it. They had just managed to reach the edge of the glade when the sound of horses' hooves alerted them to the arrival of new comers to camp. The jingle of harness, soft thud of boots hitting the ground, and distinctive chink of mithril armor reached his ears. He didn't need to turn around to know who it was--Erestor's face blanched under its coating of soot and his eyes narrowed. Thranduil had arrived.  
  
* * *  
  
Elwyyda closed the door quietly and, as Rumil looked on, locked it with a large key. There were two Galadrim posted outside the door, one on each side, and a third sat in the tree just beyond Haldir's window. Elwyyda smiled in satisfaction; her charge would not elude them again. She gave the key into Rumil's keeping and his shift caring for the unwilling invalid began. Thank Aule, she thought fervently, as she didn't know how much longer she could remain calm around Haldir. Instead of apologizing for locking her in the wardrobe for much of the afternoon, then forcing her to spend the evening sloshing around in the rain, he had proceeded to complain loud and long about his "imprisonment," as he termed it. After several hours having her memory of Westron curses reviewed at length, she had been sorely tempted to gag him; she might have actually tried it, but was making it a habit to stay out of the reach of those long arms. Honestly, he was the most annoying creature in Arda! She had actually known orcs who were easier to get along with--or at least who were quieter.   
  
Elwyyda passed down the hallway to her own room, but found after she had bathed and taken up her usual sleeping position under the edge of the large bed that she was not at all sleepy. Worries about Zirak's well being kept surfacing in her mind, for she had yet to have an opportunity to speak with him since their arrival. Rumil had been very nice and, as well as his broken Westron allowed, had repeatedly assured her that Zirak was all right. Still, she wanted to see for herself. After more than an hour of staring at the underside to the bed frame and still finding sleep elusive, she decided to imitate Haldir and go do something stupid.   
  
Creeping out of her room, Elwyyda noticed that the habit of the palace servants for ignoring her existence held true; no one even gave her a second glance as she made her way up the stairs to the room which Rumil had said belonged to Lord Elrond. The lessons of all those years in the mines also helped, as she knew how to fade into the background when needed. She was not surprised to find Lord Elrond's rooms unlocked when she reached them--they had had to have a lock specially fitted onto Haldir's door because such a thing was not usual in Lorien--but she was disappointed to find her friend neither awake nor alone. The dark elf at his side she vaguely remembered from her first disastrous day, but did not know what he was called. She hoped he wasn't going to yell at her, as Haldir had done enough of that already.  
  
To her surprise and pleasure, he turned out to be another like Rumil. Elwyyda had begun to put elves into groups in her mind, in a pyramid of types with Gildor and Zirak pre-eminent and untouchable at the top. Rumil and a few others who did not look at her as if she smelled bad--which she did not, having made certain to bathe every day whether she needed to or not--were in the middle. The haughty servants of the royal palace were firmly on the bottom, and she avoided them whenever possible. Haldir wasn't on the pyramid at all, as she preferred not to even think of him unless absolutely necessary. She certainly would have had nothing to do with his recovery, except that Gildor had asked her very sweetly before he left to please take good care of him. There was, she reflected sourly, absolutely no accounting for taste.  
  
This elf had eyes like Gildor's, dark and kind, but also rather sad, so perhaps he was really more like Zirak. She had not been introduced to Lord Elrond, but these were his rooms and the dark elf did look like a healer so she assumed it was he. He seemed unsurprised to see her, although he could not have known she was coming. Not only did he fail to order her out, but he indicated with one of those curiously elegant elvin gestures that she could sit on the edge of the bed if she liked. Elwyyda settled herself, and was content to watch Zirak sleep for a while, noting happily that he was obviously better than before. He was still thin, pale and weak, but somehow was more THERE than she could ever remember seeing him. This elf, then, seemed to be good for him, so she decided definitely to put Elrond on Rumil's level for now. Especially as he thankfully spoke Westron, something with which Rumil, but not Haldir unfortunately, had much difficulty. "Will he get better?"  
  
The dark elf looked sad. "There are many kinds of better," he said slowly, his eyes on his patient. "If you mean, will he improve physically, then yes, I believe so."  
  
Elwyyda crinkled up her brow in thought, but the elf's words made no sense. Better was better, was it not? Zirak was out of the mines now, and had all the food he wanted and his own healer caring for him . . . but the expression in the elf's grey eyes told her that something was wrong. She decided to go about this a different way. "What happened to him? Why was he in the mines? Your people did not sell him." The last comment was not a question; Gildor had told Elwyyda that there was no such thing as slavery among the elves. There were many things she did not like about their society--the flimsy buildings that swayed in the breeze and were built too high off the ground; the over-fancy food, so decorated that it was often hard to say just what its main ingredients were; and the frequent snobbery--but their attitude on slavery was one thing she highly approved.  
  
"No. He was believed slain in battle. But we should have looked longer for him. I should have looked longer." The last was said so low that Elwyyda almost didn't catch it. It seemed that this line of questioning was upsetting Lord Elrond, but Elwyyda persisted, not knowing when she might have another chance.   
  
"So his enemies sold him?"  
  
Elrond glanced up at her, and paused. Finally he sighed and ran a hand over Zirak's blankets, smoothing them although they already looked fine to her. "You were long his friend, when others on whom he might have expected to depend forsook him. I think you have a right to know."  
  
* * *   
  
Mardthelu slid another inch along the tree trunk, the cape he had taken off the ugly one he had killed slithering along behind him. It was uncomfortable against his body, and felt almost like it was trying to get away from him, but he pulled it tighter nonetheless. He did not like its too smooth, too clean surface, nor the fact that it smelled like the one he had killed, but it served its purpose, allowing him to slowly advance along the tree limb unnoticed by the host that swarmed beneath him.  
  
Mardthelu he had been named and mardthelu he was, especially after the number of elves they had crushed that day. But the price had been too high, and one elf in particular had to pay for that. He stared at the hated face, so dazzling it hurt his eyes, and knew his time to deal with him was limited. Already the despised sun was sending so much light over the horizon that it seared his eyes, and soon it would be so bright that he would be truly blind. Then he would have failed to repay the ugly one for not only killing Vulkulk, but also for kicking his severed head into the burning pile with so little respect. Mardthelu longed for the cool dark of the caves, but accepted stoically that he would never see them again. But before he died, he would take his revenge.   
  
Vulkulk was his mother-son, older than he and often cruel to him, for Mardthelu had never been as large the others in the brood. Vulkulk had often told him that he would almost certainly fail the rite of passage and bring shame on them all, yet he had mercilessly trained him for it, battering him from dusk to dawn every day with surprise attacks so that Mardthelu became wary of everyone and lashed out at the slightest sign of danger. He had suffered many cuts and some broken bones from Vulkulk's training, but had grown harder and faster for it over time. When it was at last time for the trial, Vulkulk had gone along as one of the watchers. Mardthelu had worried about that, sure that his fate was sealed, for he had never managed to please his tormentor even in the mines he knew so well, so how could he hope to do so in strange lands he had never even seen? He would fail the test and be killed himself, or worse, be sold as a slave, as one unworthy to be called a warrior.  
  
But that had not happened. To his shock, Vulkulk had helped him, driving one of the dwarves they found in his direction, and insuring that it was a large male, so that killing it would be considered true proof of skill and courage. When the dwarf had proven canny and strong, and fought on despite many wounds, Vulkulk had distracted the others in the party to the spoils reaped from their attack, and quickly helped him to make the kill. He had let everyone believe Mardthelu had managed it all on his own, and when they returned to the caves, he showed off his mother-son's scars and praised his strength. Mardthelu became a warrior, the brood's honour was saved, and a debt was silently acknowledged.   
  
Yet he had been unable to save Vulkulk in battle that day. Two of the ugly ones had attacked him at once, and no one orc could stand against such odds. Mardthelu had been too far away to assist him, fighting his own battle from which he only narrowly escaped after killing the ugly one. He had plundered the corpse, of course, and taken a knife and the curious cape that concealed its wearer, but he had shown no disrespect to the body. Their were clans that did so, of course, but his had never been among them, believing that a warrior of any type, if he fought well, deserved honour.   
  
But these things they fought did not feel that way. The bright one who killed Vulkulk kicked his body and his severed head as if trying to kill him yet again. Orcs had few ceremonies, but they understood honour to those who died bravely, and this creature offended against all the codes. He must die.  
  
* * *  
  
"There was a great battle long ago, and many great elves were lost in it. But the foe we fought, Sauron, was destroyed, and his host utterly defeated." Elrond's voice was steady, but his eyes were far away, and Elwyyda wondered if he even saw her anymore. "Or so we thought. But we were wrong; Sauron's soul lived on, but without a body it was largely powerless. Realising this, one of his servants, the Lord of the Nazgûl, devised a plan for obtaining him a new body." Elrond stopped, shivering slightly, and Elwyyda wondered if she really wanted to hear this after all.  
  
"Do you understand how elves die?" Elrond asked. Elwyyda shook her head; there had been little time for such reflection in the mines, and she had rarely thought about anything other than survival. "Elves are destined to live as long as Earth lasts. Yet, we can die, if our Fëa, what you would call a soul, is separated from the Hroa, our body. The one cannot live without the other, and once the Hroa is injured too badly, the Fëa is released to Mandos. Many elves had fallen in battle against Sauron, and many more were near death. The Lord of the Nazgûl took those still clinging to life with him, to a hidden fortress about which we knew nothing, and returned them to some of their strength. Then he tried to alter them, so that one might prove a fit carrier for Sauron's soul."  
  
Elwyyda did not understand. "But you said the soul goes to Mandos if the body dies. Why did this Sauron's soul not go there, and how could he take on the body of another? Would that soul not then be forced out, and the . . . Hroa . . . die?"  
  
Elrond smiled at her. "You are quick. I begin to understand how you were able to overcome such odds and flee the mountain. Sauron's is a powerful spirit, able to ignore the call to Mandos, and the same laws that govern the elves do not also bind him. As for the second part of your question, you are, of course, correct--if the Fëa left the body, the body would then die. But the Lord of the Nazgûl was clever, and believed he could force the Fëa of one of the captured elves to remain in its body, but unaware of itself and quiescent, while the soul of his master took over control of the borrowed Hroa. Elven bodies are durable, so once the transfer was done, his master would be virtually immortal. He had many elves to work with, and was confident that he could eventually find a suitable receptacle."  
  
"Did it work?" Despite herself, Elwyyda was becoming interested in the tale, although she did not see how it could have anything to do with Zirak. He was not possessed by some evil force--that she knew perfectly well.  
  
"No, thank the Valar, it did not." Elrond smoothed Zirak's hair lightly, then leaned back in his chair. "But the attempts to weaken and restrain their souls did the elves great damage, as did suggestions implanted in them that any attempt to regain their sense of self would result only in great pain. Most died from the torment eventually."  
  
"But Zirak?" Elwyyda had never seen anything in him that seemed subverted or twisted, but then she had not known what he had been like before. What kind of power would be needed to do something like that, and how could anyone survive it?  
  
"He was one of a handful of survivors, who the Lord of the Nazgûl failed to subvert for his uses or to kill. Eventually, the experiments were abandoned as useless, and the few remaining elves were sent to labour with the other mine slaves. It was thought that the hard work would dispose of them eventually, but that they would be of some use before they died. Most of the remaining elves did pass to Mandos over the centuries, but a few lived on, not knowing who they were or why they were there, the Nazgûl's power having deprived them of much of their memory of the past." Elrond smiled at her slightly, and Elwyyda marveled that such an expression could convey such sadness. "But thanks to your courage, we now know where they are, and those who yet remain will be rescued."  
  
"And you can heal them." It seemed to Elwyyda that there was no reason for Elrond's sadness, as everything would be all right now. She had been in the mines many years, too, but she was growing plump with all the food here, and healthy with much rest and baths and fine clothes . . . if she could do it, certainly Zirak could.  
  
"I have done something to help his leg, which I assume was damaged in the battle or later in the mines, and may eventually be able to return him to something like his old health. But I am not sure about the other--injuries to the soul are not as easily dealt with."   
  
Elwyyda regarded Zirak thoughtfully. "He is a good person. I think he will be well in time. You are good for him."  
  
Elrond gave that strange, sad smile again, and his eyes were pained. "No, I was not nearly good enough."  
  
* * *  
  
Glorfindel saw the orc a split second too late. Somehow it had managed to blend in with the tree and slide along the upper branches, keeping to the heavily shaded areas until almost on top of them. Alerted by a sudden movement, Glorfindel threw a knife at the creature's throat, but it managed to fire an arrow before his blade severed much of its neck from its body. Even as its corpse fell to the ground, Glorfindel knew Erestor must be dead. The orc had aimed directly for him, and there was no way it had missed at almost point blank range.  
  
He heard Erestor cry and he spun around, expecting to find his friend breathing his last. Instead, Erestor stood, unharmed but horrified, watching as one of the Noldor sank slowly to the ground, an orc arrow imbedded in his chest. Glorfindel recognised the elf--he was one of Lady Galadriel's servants, one with whom he had once had dealings at Imladris--but he could not remember his name.   
"Camthalion!" Erestor knelt in the dirt and ash, drawing the elf into his arms and holding him loosely. Elrohir moved forward and knelt beside the two of them, but Glorfindel could have told him to save his strength--nothing could undo the damage of a poisoned arrow through the heart. Camthalion must have noticed what was happening at the same moment Glorfindel did, and for some reason he chose to step in front of Erestor, taking the arrow meant for him. Glorfindel had never liked him, but he would see to it that he was properly lauded for his courage. Valour of that type was rare.  
  
Elrohir did not apparently realise the seriousness of the elf's injury, however, and Erestor just sat there, cradling the Noldor, his eyes huge and disbelieving in his soot-streaked face. Glorfindel put out a hand to draw Elrohir away, as there was no need for him to exhaust his abilities trying to revive the dead, but his hand did not encounter his lover's shoulder. "Camthalion, lasto beth nîn, tolo dan nan galad." A tangible wall of energy met Glorfindel's outstretched hand, and the elf on the ground, Elrohir and Erestor all began, very faintly, to glow.   
  
"Camthalion, lasto beth nîn, tolo dan nan galad!" It was a command, and spoken in the ringing tones of one used to being immediately obeyed. The power radiating off Elrohir grew in intensity, golden pulses streaming off the three of them to radiate around the camp, causing Glorfindel to back away a step. "Camthalion, lasto beth nîn, tolo dan nan galad!" An outpouring of heat and a rush of wind underscored the third demand. All around them surged a terrible, ancient power that shook the treetops over their heads, rumbled through the ground beneath their feet, and sent currents sizzling along Glorfindel's entire body. No elfling could possibly have possessed such authority, or known how to use it if he did.   
  
Glorfindel wrenched his attention away from the three at the centre of the cyclone of light and energy, and searched out Thranduil. He could not be allowed to see this--he must not see it! But it was already too late, for Glorfindel could see the king's face, and just behind him that of Lord Celeborn, and knew that any hope of further concealment was lost. If they had not pieced it together already, and from Thranduil's expression Glorfindel rather thought he had, they would soon enough. The important thing, then, was to get Elrohir away as quickly as possible, and speak to them alone before either said anything to him. And he needed to find out just how much his young lover had remembered. So caught up was he in his thoughts, that Glorfindel barely noticed when Camthalion suddenly sat up, dazed and disoriented, but most definitely alive.   
  
TBC   
  
"Camthalion, lasto beth nîn, tolo dan nan galad.": "Camthalion, hear my voice, come back to light."   
  
Mardthelu: Elf-crusher.  
  
Vulkulk: Goblin-sword. 


	18. Chapter Eighteen

Title: Wild Justice 18/?   
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer@hotmail.com  
Rating: R   
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline and my precious, evil mind.   
Feedback: Please!  
Warnings: BDSM.   
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused.   
  
* * *  
  
"You two are so much alike!" Twin pairs of eyes, so different in appearance but so similar in expression, regarded him with outrage. Gildor settled back against the plump pillows at the head of the bed and smiled happily. He had been so relieved to wake up, relatively well and certainly well cared for, in a guest room in Lorien, that at first he had thought that he was dreaming. Then he'd seen Haldir, with an absurdly sized bandage around his foot, slouched in a chair by the bed, and had known it was real. Haldir had been arguing with Elwyyda at the time and Gildor did not think that he would be likely to dream up those scowls, not to mention some of the phrases they used.   
  
Gildor never found out what the reply to his quite truthful observation would have been, because Lord Elrond, who had been standing unobtrusively to the side, observing the argument with evident amusement, interrupted to insist that he drink something. It must have induced sleep, for Gildor soon drifted off again, his lover's annoyed tones still ringing in his ears. When he woke the second time, Elwyyda was by his bed but Haldir was gone. "Lord Elrond says you must stay in bed. You have been very badly hurt." She shot him a look that clearly said he should not have been so careless, "but we will see that you soon get well."   
  
Gildor found it amusing that she had apparently elevated herself to Lord Elrond's assistant, but he tried to keep from letting his emotions show on his face. "Elwyyda, can you tell me about the rest of the party--how they are? And why were there so many orcs in the group that attacked us? There were far too many for a simple raiding party. What were they all doing there?"   
  
Elwyyda looked at him sternly. "You don't need to worry about them. I am sure they will be more careful from now on." She tucked a blanket up under his chin. "You need to rest and sleep and recover your strength." She fussed about a bit more, giving Gildor the distinct impression that she was enjoying telling him what to do, but he accepted the pampering with good grace. In truth, it was rather nice to have someone see to his every need, and soon his bedside table was piled high with books, scrolls, a large pitcher of water, a plate filled to overflowing with cookies and pastries, and a large medicine bottle.   
  
Gildor regarded the latter with distaste; he didn't know what Lord Elrond had put in it, but it tasted absolutely vile. On the assumption that it was the same draught he had previously taken, it would almost certainly cause him to sleep again, and he could not afford that. Elwyyda was adamant, however, and he swallowed the dosage obediently, but as soon as she looked away to pour him some water, he spit most of it into his handkerchief. Elwyyda bustled off a few minutes later at his request that she fetch his favourite tunic from the washing rooms, which would take her a good while as it had never been sent there. Then Gildor set about finding Haldir and, hopefully, some answers.  
  
* * *  
  
The orc fires were lit in the mountains--distant pinpoints of light that cast a reddish glow against the swiftly falling night. From the doorway of the tent, Glorfindel could hear the low beat of their drums, echoing oddly through the steep passes. They should have disturbed him, but in fact he found it all strangely soothing, like the cool night air that brushed across his face.   
His thoughts were a tumultuous mix of relief, confusion and guilt. Relief that Elrohir had been so exhausted from the amount of energy he had expended to heal Camthalion that it had been easy to get Erestor to bustle him away while Glorfindel intercepted the two Eldar on his trail. Confusion because where did one even start to explain something this long in the making, and this complex? Guilt over the methods he had been forced to use to persuading the two Elda to speak with him rather than with Elrohir, but the cajolery and threats, the latter involving mention of what careless words might do to Elrohir's well being, had succeeded.   
  
Thranduil had been highly displeased, but was still stunned enough by what he had witnessed to agree, especially after Glorfindel pointed out that he could probably explain things more coherently than could Elrohir, assuming he had even remembered. The sudden arrival of Thranduil's force of archers had also helped to serve as a distraction, as had the journey on towards the mountains, which had preoccupied them most of the day. Glorfindel had received the Eldar's promise to say nothing until he could speak with them in private, but it was likely to be a difficult conversation, and one that would dredge up memories he would have preferred not to relive.   
  
** The great white city had been in flames, and frantic elves were everywhere, stumbling as they ran with a few possessions bundled onto their backs. He almost collided with a mother, who was clutching a baby to her breast and leading another elfling by the hand, desperately trying, as was everyone, to escape before it was too late. Glorfindel had steadied her, and steered her away from the besieged Northern Gate, where the allies of Morgoth were pressing their attack in unnumbered thousands.   
  
His first thought had been to get his king beyond the walls and out of danger, but when he reached the throne room, Turgon flatly refused to leave. "I should have listened to Lord Ulmo's warning, Glorfindel," the king said sadly as the last of his armor was buckled onto him. "My pride led us to this, but I will see my family safe, at least." He then bound Glorfindel with a solemn vow to see to the safety of his daughter and grandson. "The loyalty you have always given to me, I ask you to bestow on them--get them safely away from here, at whatever cost." His dark eyes glowed with knowledge of his doom, and he gripped Glorfindel's arm so strongly as to leave bruises. "Do you swear?"  
  
Glorfindel had not taken the oath lightly, but there had been no way he could possibly have dreamed of all that would come of it. He had assumed that he would see the princess to a place of safety and then return to stand by his king. It had not even crossed his mind that he would never see Turgon again. At his agreement, the king nodded once, then was gone, golden armor gleaming, blood red cape swirling about him, the white tunic he wore emblazoned with the symbol of a scarlet heart. It was the way Glorfindel would ever after remember him.  
  
Glorfindel ran immediately from the throne room to the princess' quarters, which, although she now lived most of the time in her husband's house, she still kept to please her father. She used them on occasions when state business caused her to be needed at the palace as hostess, and Glorfindel had half expected to find her there in the midst of the current crisis, but she was nowhere to be seen. Her maids were haphazardly throwing silken dresses and jewels into cases, as if there would be anyone interested in carrying them away in the midst of such chaos. He gripped Erúvë, the princess' chief maid, by the arm, demanding to know where her mistress had gone.   
  
"I do not know, I do not know!" She screamed and dropped to the floor, as a dragon's fireball, all unholy green and gold fire, burst through the stained glass panels lining the pretty room, instantly reducing them to a thousand twinkling shards. That prismatic orgy of light, a shower of gold, silver and blue, had once shown the scene of the creation of Arda and the growth of the two trees; its destruction had seemed somehow fitting to one who was watching the collapse of his world. But Glorfindel had not had time to rage against the stupidity of those who only knew how to destroy, never how to create; he had a task to perform.   
  
Glorfindel had soon given up on getting any useful information from the palace servants, merely advising them to leave off their packing and flee the city at once. Some hastened to obey, others just stood there as their world crashed down around their heads, unwilling to even accept what was happening, much less to do anything about it. But there had been no time to try to persuade them. Glorfindel had begun a frantic, hours' long search for the princess, who had seemingly dropped off the face of Arda.  
  
The city had come apart all around him, billowing columns of smoke rising into the bright blue sky and everywhere was the reek of charred wood and sulpher. Every street had houses with doors standing wide open as their owners had fled. They looked strangely cheerful as many of them were, like the streets themselves, bedecked in garlands of spring flowers for the festival, but no one would admire them now. None he encountered had time or knowledge to help him in his quest, and for a while Glorfindel had despaired. But his retainers searched the city, heedless of the danger from the orcs that were beginning to stream through the wrecked Northern Gate, and at last brought him news.   
  
Glorfindel had finally found her, looking far less regal than usual, huddled against the last remaining wall of the house he had thought destroyed in the attack on the city walls. It was a solid structure overlooking the ramparts of the city, but he saw on his arrival that much of the early tale he'd heard had been true, as a breach in the city walls had torn away much of the house's structure. A high wind from the fissure was blowing the princess' long hair and delicate blue robes about her as she watched, horrified, as her husband battled the traitor Maeglin along the narrow parapet of what remained of the city wall. They were fighting only inches from their doom, and orcish arrows sped by, narrowly missing them.   
  
Glorfindel rushed up the stairs, several of his people close behind him, but could only watch helplessly, knowing he was too late, as the combatants grappled on the edge of the ramparts in the final seconds of battle. Then the princess ran forward, just a few steps, and called out Maeglin's name. He had betrayed a city for her, had destroyed his honour and caused countless deaths in an insane bid to possess one who would never love him, and yet, it must have been love of a sort he felt, for he looked up at her voice. "Maeglin, no!" Her cry distracted him--only for an instant, but that was enough. A second later he was gone, tumbling into the abyss below, screaming her name all the way down.   
  
Glorfindel posted some of the elves attached to his house of the Golden Flower around the princess and Earendil, then went with Tuor to rally what support he could to help fight their way out of the city. Nothing had gone as planned, and he and his retainers had become involved in the final, desperate battle with the hoards of orcs, balrogs and dragons that were attacking the main square and palace complex. Glorfindel had sought for his lover's face in the chaos, knowing he would be wherever the fighting was greatest, but had seen no sign of his distinctive crystal and silver armor. Then blood from a cut above his brow almost obscured his vision, and the battle became so fierce that just staying alive and giving what direction he could to his elves consumed all his concentration. Glorfindel saw him briefly at the last, of course--he could hardly have missed him then--but there was no way to get to him, no way to save him, and he watched helplessly as he fell.   
  
But there was no time for mourning. The combined might of the surviving elvish hosts looked likely to turn the tide for a brief period, and with heavy losses they defeated many balrogs, including their prince Gothmog, and a fire dragon, whose fall into the deep fountain at the square's centre caused a huge billow of steam to flood the scene, almost obliterating the conflict from sight. It had not been soon enough, however, to keep the princess from seeing the destruction of her father's tower. Her grip on Glorfindel's arm was desperate and the look in her eyes anguished as she begged him to make it all go away.   
  
She had been strong to the point that Turgon fell; as Glorfindel learned much later, she defended herself and her child courageously against Maeglin until Tuor had arrived to save them. But something in her seemed to die along with her father and her city, and she collapsed in on herself, looking suddenly as brittle boned as a tiny bird, with the wild, frightened eyes of a child. Her privileged background had left her with few defenses against such times. She had been little more than a zombie as Glorfindel hurried the remains of Tuor's family to the hidden escape tunnel beneath the city, and she clutched her seven-year-old son in trembling arms. Like her, the strength seemed to go out of the elvish army with the death of their king, and Glorfindel knew where his duty lay.**  
  
Glorfindel turned back into the tent, looking from Thranduil to Celeborn and back again, wondering if there was any way to make them understand what that day had been like. "I had taken a solemn oath to protect the remnants of Turgon's family. I could not forsake the last order my king ever gave me, especially not to save a city already doomed to fall. I chose to escape with them, and to insure their safety at whatever price." He did not mention what that price had been, as everyone knew the tale of his epic battle all too well.   
  
**Glorfindel had never been able to remember that final fall, or the actual moment of his death amid the balrog's flames. He only knew that he came to consciousness once more in a dim room, where a lovely elf-maid sat weaving something on a huge loom. He had walked towards her, feeling strangely confused and empty, but also with the clear impression that he had forgotten something.   
  
"Your pardon, lady, but could you tell me where I am?"   
  
The elf looked up from her work, cocking her head to the side while she studied him. "I do not think I have it quite right, somehow," she commented. "Come and see, and tell me what you think." Confused, Glorfindel nonetheless moved as he was bid, not accustomed to arguing with the requests of females. The great tapestry stretched out before him, its colours muted by the dim light, but nonetheless beautiful in its intricacy. Then he realised just what he was seeing. His battle with the balrog was at the centre of the picture, which showed him and the demon wreathed in coral and crimson flames, in the instant just before they dropped together into the abyss. In the background, shining like the beacon it had once been, was Gondolin, brilliantly white despite the orange fire that had begun to consume it. At the very top of the image, a single eagle glowed gold, spreading its great wings against the roiling blackness of the smoke.  
  
"You are skilled, lady," he had finally managed to say around the lump in his throat.  
  
She laughed, a fair, tinkling sound, like water in a merry stream. "Persistent, rather! It took me centuries to get it right, but still, there is something . . . "  
  
"Centuries?" Glorfindel did not usually correct a lady, but her words were very odd indeed. The events of that day's battle were now coming back to him, however, and too much emotion choked him for speech to be possible.  
  
"Yes, you were very tired and slept long. But," and her lovely face grew cheerful, "you're awake now, so tell me, what did I do wrong?"  
  
Glorfindel had tried to look away from the disturbingly accurate depiction of his final battle, but it drew the eye. As he contemplated it, something she had said began to penetrate his thoughts, and suddenly, he understood. "You are Vairë."  
  
The elf--no, Glorfindel corrected himself, the Valar--tapped her foot impatiently. "Of course, who else? But tell me, is it accurate or no? I had them bring you to me in order to find out, and I will have your answer."  
  
"It . . . appears true, as far as I can recall." It had been a day for new experiences, Glorfindel thought dizzily--first defeating a fire demon and now chatting with a goddess. "I think, though, that the demon's eyes were yellow, not red, and it wielded a whip of flame, not a glowing sword." He was afraid he might have offended her with his criticism, but Vairë seemed pleased.   
  
"Ah, very good." She waved a hand casually over the surface of the tapestry, and suddenly it melted, then reformed with the changes in place. "Is that better?" When he nodded dumbly, she smiled and waved her hand again, and suddenly they were in an immensely long corridor, stretching, it seemed, for miles. Beautifully wrought tapestries lined most available surfaces, but here and there a blank spot showed through. They were standing in front of such a one, into which Vairë's latest creation slowly coalesced, as if woven anew from the air alone. "Yes, I like it there," she commented, stepping back a few paces. Glorfindel followed her lead, only to notice something strange.  
  
"Forgive me, lady," he faltered over the last word, unsure how one was supposed to address the Valar, never having met one before, but she did not seem to mind. "But it seems that perhaps . . . ", he stopped, feeling foolish, as he was certainly no one to accuse the Valar of making mistakes.   
  
"Something troubles you?" Her expression was innocent, yet Glorfindel received the impression that he had been maneuvered into this.  
  
"It just seems," and he gestured to the pieces on each side of the new arrival, "a little . . . out of place."  
  
She smiled, and all the beauty of Arda was in her gaze. "You sound like my husband. Námo wants everything recorded, and a job it is, I must say, but then after leaving me with all the work, he thinks he can tell me how to display the end result. I explained to him that he was mistaken, but we still have arguments about it from time to time. Still, I get my way." She drew Glorfindel down the hall to a beautiful tapestry showing Celebrimbor at his forge. Right next to it was another piece with a great battlefield stretched out under a deep red sky. Beyond that was a weaving depicting, of all things, a group of halflings in what looked like nothing so much as a common pub. "All these tell the same story, just different pieces of it. Despite the fact that they are separated by many centuries, then, I choose to display them all together . . . it is just an extra benefit that it also really annoys Námo."  
  
Glorfindel looked at her suspiciously. He had always assumed that the Valar had no sense of humour, that they were too noble and otherworldly and, well, god-like, for that. But now he decided he might have to rethink that assumption. Vairë gave him what could best be described as a grin, then dragged him back down the hall to stand in front of his tapestry again. "I've always found your story to be very interesting, Glorfindel. So many people just live and die, and the world is very much the same either way. But around some, whole eras seem to hinge, and a very few just keep popping up, so to speak, doing time-altering things, then disappearing for centuries. I think of them as catalysts for . . . "  
  
"That is enough, Vairë." A dark form came towards them through the mists swirling about the corridor, a shadowy presence that was not menacing exactly, but nonetheless caused Glorfindel to shiver. He knew without being told that he was standing in the presence of Námo, the Valar better known for the name of his realm--Mandos.  
  
* * *  
  
Haldir woke up from a fitful sleep to see luminous dark eyes hovering above him, and he turned towards the love in that beautiful face like a flower seeking the sun. Then he remembered and scrambled back on the bed in something approaching panic. Gildor crawled after him, an almost predatory look on his face.   
  
"This won't work." Haldir heard himself say the words, but they were weak and he was already hot and shivery just from the sight of his lover.   
  
"What won't?," Gildor asked innocently, trailing an idle finger along his lover's arm. Already Haldir could feel his desire mounting, the familiar tightening causing him to hold himself stiff and wary under the sheets.   
  
"You and me together. At least, not now."  
  
"Really? Why?" Gildor did not wait for an answer, but moved to straddle his lover's body, carefully avoiding the damaged ankle.   
  
"Because Lord Elrond said you need to rest--and gave orders that we were to be separated so I would not accidentally injure you." That had hurt, Haldir recalled with a grimace. As if he was so incapable of controlling his passions that he would risk harming his lover. He had made a solemn promise never to do that again, and had meant every word of it.  
  
"Lord Elrond isn't here, and I feel fine," Gildor assured him, tugging at the nightshirt that was the only clothing Haldir had been left by his gaolers. Rumil had threatened to take even that, "except that I don't think the hazard of having to run naked through Lorien would deter you, and the family does have to maintain SOME dignity." Now Haldir was wishing he had some of the hodge-podge attire that ridiculous dwarf had put him in, or at least a few of those thick blankets between him and Gildor, as the thin sheets were doing little to hide his body's growing interest in the proceedings.   
  
"Something will happen--some disaster," Haldir could not keep himself from looking fearfully towards the window. "A huge fire will break out, or a massive flood will drown all of Lorien," Gildor was ignoring him; he had managed to remove the nightshirt and was now trailing soft fingers down Haldir's exposed chest. "Sauron himself will return," Haldir protested, half seriously, clutching the sheet to the lower part of his body as Gildor reached lower, "leading a party of ten thousand orcs . . . "  
  
Gildor laughed. "Don't be ridiculous." And he leaned in for a kiss.   
  
"No!" Haldir tried not to notice the way his lover was shifting about on top of him, adding delicious friction to what was already an almost unbearable situation. He clung to his warm body for an instant, desperately desiring the pleasure it offered, but then resolutely pushed him away. "We HAVE to stop this! You almost died, Gildor, and lost much blood. You are still weak . . . "  
  
"I know something that will make me feel MUCH better," Gildor commented, sucking one of the fingers gripping his shoulders into his mouth.   
  
"No . . . ," Haldir knew he was weakening. He had never been able to deny Gildor anything, so how could he now refuse him something they both wanted so badly?   
  
"THERE you are!" Haldir looked past Gildor's shoulder to see an enraged, three-foot tall virago standing in the doorway, with an equally annoyed Rumil just behind her. She glared at Haldir. "I should have known you'd find a way to lure him here, and the poor thing still barely able to walk!" Elwyyda rushed forward and tugged ineffectually at Gildor's arm. As she and Rumil managed to drag the protesting Gildor away, Haldir reflected that he would kiss her if he didn't hate her quite so much.   
  
"I'll see you soon," Gildor said, turning back to give Haldir one last glance, his brown eyes promising many things as they towed him away. Haldir exhaled roughly, throwing an arm over his eyes and wondering what he had ever done to deserve this. He could only hope that the gods would find a new object for their amusement soon.   
  
* * *  
  
Glorfindel sat at the small table with Celeborn and Thranduil, wishing he could explain the very odd twists his life had taken without sounding like a lying bard. It WAS a fantastic tale, but then, so had his battle with the balrog been . . . then he remembered that there were some who had always expressed serious doubts about that. He could only hope the two lords before him were going to be more open minded, although from their expressions that did not seem likely.  
  
"Lord Námo took me away quickly, saying that someone wished to speak to me, but not before I noticed what I think Vairë had meant for me to see. The tapestries on either side of the fall of Gondolin showed scenes which had to be in some way related to it, but they made little sense at the time. On one side of my tapestry was a weaving showed a blond elf-maid of great beauty holding a small, dark haired infant. It meant nothing to me then, for I did not recognise either of them, but years later I chanced upon the Lady Celebrian nursing Elrohir in exactly the same position. Then I understood."  
  
"And what, pray tell, was on the weaving on the other side?" Thranduil looked like he believed none of this, and sarcasm dripped from his tone. Glorfindel couldn't really blame him. He had been there, yet even to him it sometimes felt like a dream that had happened to someone else.   
  
"The other side . . . ," He trailed off. Explaining that one might be a little tricky.  
  
TBC 


	19. Chapter Nineteen

Title: Wild Justice 19/?   
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer@hotmail.com  
Rating: R   
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline and my precious, evil mind.   
Feedback: Please!  
Warnings: BDSM. A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused. There is an author's note at the end (yes, I actually remembered to include it this time) for anyone who is interested.  
  
* * *  
  
**The main audience chamber of Mandos was similar to many of the meeting halls Glorfindel had seen in his life, if rather darker, being lit only by a few standing candelabra. He reminded himself that this could well be just a mental projection designed to make him feel more comfortable, with the reality being very different. That view was reinforced when he saw the room's occupant. Glorfindel had always been told that the Valar were larger than life, radiant as a star, and terrible in their beauty. It was rather a shock, then, to see the figure lounging on the throne, picking his teeth and looking bored.   
  
"Ulmo! Kindly get out of my seat." The throne's occupant looked up, grinned, and raised a glass to his host, who seemed peeved. "Every time you visit you do this," Namo complained. "Why don't you get your own hall somewhere and stop littering up mine?"  
  
Ulmo rose to his feet slowly, making it obvious that he was just doing it to humour his host. "Littering? I should say rather decorating, Namo," he commented, coming down the stairs towards them, "and this place can certainly use it." Glorfindel could not help but notice that he was very little like the description given in the old legends. He was tall, for instance, but no more so than many elves Glorfindel had known; he did wear an impressive, silver crown and a long grey cloak, and the tunic underneath it, which was slightly iridescent, could at a great stretch be said to resemble the scales of a fish. However, his hair, which was supposed to cascade down his back "as foam glimmering in the dusk" just looked normal to Glorfindel, and there was no sign of the "kirtle of deep green that flashed and flickered with sea-fire as he strode." Perhaps his tailor was having an off day, Glorfindel thought, and fought down an urge to giggle. He wondered if it was possible for spirits to go insane, and if so, if you were then doomed to madness forever or might perhaps recover.  
  
"You aren't mad, Glorfindel, although I suppose you can be forgiven for thinking so," the Lord of the Sea commented, clapping him on the back. He leaned closer and whispered in his ear, "And even the gods dress down when we're at home."  
  
"You aren't AT home, Ulmo," Namo reminded him tetchily. "You are clogging up my palace and adding to my already heavy burden of annoyance." He waved a black robed arm vaguely at the door through which they'd just entered, as he settled himself on his throne. "Go, conclude your business with this one. I said I wouldn't oppose you and I won't, but that doesn't mean I wish to hear about it. It makes no sense having rules if you're just going to go about breaking them all the time."  
  
"He's always like that," Ulmo said, leading Glorfindel out of the chamber. "I'd remind him about Luthien and his own flouting of the rules, and with even less of an excuse than I have, but we need to avoid irritating him further. His support, however grudging, will make all this so much easier."  
  
"Forgive me, Lord Ulmo, but it will make what easier?"  
  
Ulmo just smiled, and towed him down a complicated maze of halls to a very dark chamber where a pool of water flickered under the light of a single hanging lantern. "Go ahead, look!" Ulmo pushed him to the pool's edge, and Glorfindel obediently looked in, but saw nothing extraordinary, just the rough-hewn stone of the pool's bottom, reflecting glimmering eddies of light. Then the surface became opaquely silver, and images started to flicker across it.**   
  
Celeborn looked as if he was trying to absorb the tale, but Thranduil just scowled. "And what, pray tell, does any of your adventures in Mandos have to do with Elrohir? I know what I saw, Glorfindel, and . . . "  
  
Glorfindel held up a hand. "I know this is taking some time, but it will make much more sense if you allow me to proceed in my own way." The really difficult part, he reflected, was ensuring that he did not mention anything that he had seen that did not concern the immediate problem. Few of the scattered and rapidly flickering images had meant much to him at the time, but subsequent events had shed considerable light on them; yet to reveal too much would be to possibly unbalance the way events were meant to unfold. It was a heavy burden, and he had long wished that Lord Ulmo had been somewhat more careful about what he had allowed him to see.  
  
**"I do not understand, my Lord. What is it you are showing me?"  
  
Ulmo had seated himself on one of the large, black volcanic rocks that rimmed the pool, and was combing out his hair. He had perched his crown at a lopsided angle on a small rock and it looked perilously close to tumbling into the pool. Glorfindel wasn't sure if it would be sacrilegious to point that out, so he didn't mention it. "That is the future, Glorfindel, or rather, the future as it stands now--which is not at all the same thing as the future decided, which is all the past really is, isn't it?"  
  
Glorfindel regarded him levelly, and supposed that gods didn't have to make sense, although it would be nice.  
  
"I heard that," Ulmo told him sharply. "Anyway, I AM making sense. You're just a little slow. But no matter, loyalty above brains, I've always said--the former is much rarer than the latter, I've found."  
  
Glorfindel wondered if he had just been insulted.  
  
"If you have, be glad of it," Ulmo told him. "I've insulted most of Arda at one time or another, or at least the better part of it--no good insulting the truly evil as they take it as a compliment--so you should be pleased. Sort of a status symbol, really. Anyway," he jumped down off his rock and pointed at something in the pool, "there you are, right there, do you see?"  
  
He was pointing to the current image, which showed a vast, deep plain filled with orcs, which a great elvin army--and were those men?--were fighting. "I see a battle, my Lord, but I am not there."  
  
Ulmo smiled and patted him on the back. "Exactly!," he said, sitting back down as if that explained everything. Glorfindel regarded him expectantly, and Ulmo sighed. "You aren't there because you're dead." Glorfindel continued to look hopeful--an explanation had to be forthcoming sooner or later that made sense, and it wasn't as if he didn't have plenty of time. Ulmo sighed again. "In that future," he explained very slowly, "you are dead. So, you can't influence matters."  
  
"Yes, my Lord."  
  
Ulmo waved a hand and the images stopped. "There--do you recognise him?" He pointed at a handsome dark elf who was caught, sword raised, about to slay an orc. The frozen face did look somewhat familiar, but if they had met before, Glorfindel could not place him. "Look carefully, does he not remind you of someone?"  
  
Glorfindel regarded the face again, leaning over the pool to get a closer look, and yes, there was something . . . "He looks as if he may be a relative of the king's," he commented, for the elf had the same intense eyes, and the line of his jaw and something about his high forehead reminded Glorfindel of his lost sovereign. Something occurred to him then, and he turned to Ulmo excitedly. "Could I see him? Could I see the king? He must be here."  
  
Ulmo sighed. "Look at the image, Glorfindel, and do try to concentrate." He waved a hand again and, very slowly, the people began to move. At this speed, Glorfindel could see the figure being closely pressed, and then a huge orc came up behind him and skewered him on a long spear. The elf finished off the two orcs he was fighting, then turned and slew his attacker, but Glorfindel could see him weakening, and he wasn't surprised. No elf could withstand a blow like that.  
  
"The one you saw die was Elrond, or rather, he IS Elrond, Turgon's great grandson, for all that is still far in the future. But it is also very wrong. I did not go to all the trouble to set that family up for great deeds, only to have my plans destroyed by an orc, of all things. I mean really--not even a dragon or a balrog, some worthy opponent, but an ORC! Generations of careful planning all gone," he snapped his fingers, looking disgusted, "just like that. And why, do you suppose?"  
  
Glorfindel looked lost and Ulmo seemed to be loosing patience with him. "Because. You. Were. Dead. Do you understand? You couldn't save the day twice, because you'd already done it once and ended up here for your pains. Useless. That's what you are now, completely useless, roaming about Mandos when, if you were there, you could change everything. And you would, wouldn't you, Glorfindel? Your sovereign attacked, surrounded by enemies--you would be at his back, would you not?"  
  
Glorfindel nodded. 'Yes, Lord, unless he ordered me elsewhere, as King Turgon did . . . "  
  
Ulmo waved a hand. "Elrond isn't stupid. You always need someone in battle to guard your back, someone capable enough not to get killed and to see that you don't either. That's what I need for Elrond, and that's why I'm here, depending on Namo's dubious hospitality. Glorfindel, I've come to send you back."**  
  
* * *  
  
Erestor watched Elrohir with a worried frown on his face. They sat outside in the gathering dusk, the mountains within view but their goal still several days' journey away. The camp was quiet, with preparations for the evening meal under way. With the wounded having been dispatched back to Imladris that morning, there was little for anyone, other than the sentries, to do. Erestor fidgeted; he had too much to worry about: the raid on the mines, where, it now seemed, they were expected, so resistance would doubtless be fierce; the problem with Elrohir choosing to remember his past NOW when they were too far away to seek Elrond's help, and then refusing to return to Lorien with the wounded; and his own feelings for Camthalion, which were quite strong and completely unexpected.  
  
Erestor sighed and made a movement towards Elrohir, who was sitting near the edge of the camp, lost in his thoughts. He stopped, however, after a few paces, not certain whether interrupting him was the best thing to do. And how was he supposed to know? Even Elrond had not been entirely certain what should be done, as Glorfindel had been returned as an adult, having "grown up" a second time in Valinor before being sent back. And reanimated elves were not exactly thick on the ground in Middle Earth. It wasn't, Erestor thought petulantly, as if one could simply stroll up to one and say, so, how did your memories come back, then, and did you run amuck for a while thereafter? Kill anyone at all?   
  
He kicked a rock into the forest and wished there was an orc around to shoot. Preferably several orcs. He usually hated the haphazard violence of combat. Even the best laid battle plans never went as expected, and often who won was less about strategy than pure dumb luck. Erestor preferred things to be laid out with precision, and then carefully followed through, so that everything took place exactly as it was meant to do. It was how he ran Elrond's household and how he preferred to run his life, but there was nothing orderly about combat. Still, he was almost looking forward to the mines in comparison with the horrible conundrum facing him now. When to help might be to harm, but so might doing nothing, who could know the right road to take?   
  
He needed Elrond's wisdom, his patience, and especially his sense of calm. Whenever Imladris' lord was there, things suddenly seemed to fall into place. Elrond's debilitation had seriously damaged Erestor's comfortable sense of well being, as, for the first time in centuries, he found himself working without a safety net. If he made the wrong decision, there was no one to catch him; if he gave Glorfindel the wrong advice, and the Elda had been leaning on him more and more lately, who was there to argue with him? Usually he and Glorfindel were the perfect counterparts--he provided the careful, sane, logical approach to problems, while Glorfindel tended to be bolder, and in Erestor's opinion, sometimes even reckless. Yet Elrond was able to easily judge between them, and almost invariably made the right decision for any given situation. But now they had to find their way alone, as Erestor did not trust Lord Celeborn's judgment as much as he had Elrond's, and he certainly had no faith whatsoever in Thranduil's.   
  
He glanced behind him, to the tent where Glorfindel had retreated with the Eldar in question some time before, and wondered how that discussion was going. He could have worse tasks, he thought wryly. Then he looked back to where Elrohir sat, and noticed the young one regarding him closely. Sighing, Erestor decided that sometimes in life, it was necessary just to take a chance. Gathering his dark robes about him, he wove through the obstacles littered about the camp and stopped before his old charge. "Elrohir, I believe we need to talk."  
  
* * *  
  
"It seemed that my death displeased the Valar, especially Lord Ulmo who has always taken an interest in his envoy's family, and thought my services could yet be of use to them. He told me that he was unhappy with my sacrifice and offered to reanimate my Fëa and send me back to Middle Earth, as long as I would continue to feel bound by my oath to Turgon's line."  
  
"And you agreed," Celeborn commented, looking moved. "To subject yourself utterly to the will of the Valar--it is a rare and beautiful thing, Glorfindel."  
  
Glorfindel shifted slightly in his chair. It hadn't been exactly like that.  
  
**"What did you say?" Ulmo regarded him with surprise. There was as yet no anger in his visage, perhaps out of sheer shock--Glorfindel doubted that anyone had ever been foolish enough before to tell him no, however respectfully.   
  
"I, er, I said that I would rather not, Lord."  
  
Ulmo just continued to look at him, as if re-evaluating his previous comment on Glorfindel's sanity. "Any reason why or just not in the mood?," he asked, finally.  
  
"I . . . well, that is . . . ," Glorfindel could not think how to explain things tactfully, but luckily, Ulmo was continuing his habit of reading his thoughts. The image in the pool changed and there he was, just as Glorfindel had first seen him, his dark hair blowing in the wind, his grey eyes laughing, the sun sparking tiny rainbows off the diamonds and crystals set into his armor.   
  
Ulmo looked stunned. "You would refuse my request for him--just an elf?"  
  
Glorfindel bristled. "He was not 'just an elf' my Lord, and he also died defending Turgon's line, if you recall." Glorfindel pushed memories of that scene out of his mind--he definitely did not want to be shown that again, of all things.  
  
"Don't be impertinent." Ulmo looked faintly amused. "So what did you have in mind? Seeking him out, here in Mandos?"  
  
Glorfindel sighed. He had just woken up, after seeing the city he loved smashed to pieces, watching the only lover he had ever cared about die in agony, and plunging off a cliff to his own fiery end. Since coming back to awareness, not only had he not been given time to come to grips with his emotions, but he had been ruthlessly teased by the Valar, who acted as if his desires were irrelevant in their complex plans for Arda. At this point, Glorfindel didn't care about Arda, he cared about talking to Ecthelion and making sure he was all right, or as much as possible under the circumstances.   
  
Again, Ulmo seemed to discern his thoughts without being told. He was stroking his chin thoughtfully when Namo's voice suddenly rang out, echoing off the chamber's walls. "Don't even THINK about it!"  
  
Ulmo smiled, and gripped Glorfindel about the shoulders. "Terrible eavesdropper--I should have known. Anyway, Glorfindel, I think perhaps we can come to an understanding, after all."**  
  
"So you are telling me you gave the Valar an ultimatum?" Thranduil burst out laughing, but his eyes were impressed. "I always knew you were an original, seneschal! I just did not realise how much! Yet," he grew thoughtful, you WERE drawn to me, when we met--I know this, Glorfindel, so do not bother to deny it. I would hardly have wasted so much time on you if I truly believed your heart belonged to another. So why encourage me, if you expected the return of your life partner?"  
  
Glorfindel shook his head, smiling faintly. "The Valar promised to return Ecthelion to me, but they did not say when. I had foolishly assumed that we would be sent back together, but I was returned to Middle Earth alone. For centuries I waited, believing that any day he would come, yet the years passed and still I was alone. I finally decided that I was being punished for my presumption in dictating to the Valar, and that he might never come, or might do so just before I died--again--which seemed a likely possibility on several occasions. Then, after Barad-dur, I gave up all hope, sure that, as I had fulfilled my purpose, Lord Ulmo would have no incentive to send my lover back to me. I finally resigned myself to living without him, resolving to find love, or at least companionship, where I might. Then I met you, and was instantly drawn to you."  
  
"But your vow still held, to serve Elrond's family always." It was as if Glorfindel and the king were alone, as Celeborn had backed out of the conversation, looking on from the shadows, but saying nothing.  
  
"Yes, and I remained faithful to it, despite temptation to the contrary." Glorfindel smiled--he might as well admit it, Thranduil had always made a tempting offer. "I think now that that might have been what prompted Lord Ulmo to fulfill his vow. The Valar saw that I kept my word despite their tardiness in honouring their's, and decided to reward me. They gave me an added gift in not only allowing my lover to return to me, but also insuring that he was born into the family I had promised to serve, thereby permitting me to keep my vow and also to have him near. Waiting for him to reach maturity was difficult, but not as much as remaining silent about who he was. Lord Elrond was told what had been decided before Elrohir was born, and agreed to accept him into his household for my sake. He made no objection to his being given the same appearance as Elladan, whom Ecthelion resembled in any case."   
  
"But why all the secrecy?," Thranduil burst out. "Your gift is also one to all the Sindar! Our greatest hero has returned, and yet you said nothing! For fifty years . . . "  
  
"The Valar warned that it would be dangerous to reveal his identity to Elrohir too soon. I can attest to the truth of the old rumour that no elf remembers his former life as soon as he is reanimated. I was more than one hundred cycles old before I began to remember, and there are still some things I do not recall until a chance remark brings them to mind. Most reanimated elves live out their lives in Valinor, where they have the help of the Valar in bearing the burden of many centuries. How well do you think Elrohir would survive having millennia of memories crash down on him all at once, and at such a young age? We were told the result could be madness." Glorfindel leaned over the table, willing Thranduil to understand. "We did not dare to tell you, for fear that you would insist on talking with him, questioning him, and that, unwittingly, you might cause him harm. That is why Elrond steered him toward Lorien at his coming of age, rather than sending him to your court as Elladan was. No one else was told of his true identity either--Lord Celeborn did not even know, although I believe the Lady Galadriel suspects. She once remarked to me that she has great difficulty reading Elrohir--as rarely occurs in any but the most powerful of elves."  
  
Thranduil glanced at Celeborn. "So you did not warn them that I was expected."  
  
Celeborn shook his head; he seemed overwhelmed. "I have not had the opportunity to spend much time with Elrohir; I honestly did not know."  
  
Glorfindel agreed, wishing that he felt less like a traitor for keeping the secret. "There was no reason for you to suspect--if Lord Elrond and his entire household accepted him, why should it occur to you to question his identity? But Thranduil had never met him, although he did know Elladan." Glorfindel turned to the king, "Had I known you would be in Lorien, I would have kept Elrohir in Imladris. You are famed for discerning the hearts of others better than any elf in Arda. We thought it likely that you would compare Elrond's two sons and become suspicious."  
  
Thranduil smiled, his expression dreamy. "I could hardly fail to recognise the greatest warrior of them all. I grew up on tales of his exploits; as elflings, we used to act out the slaying of Gothmog, trying to come up with a way Ecthelion could have accomplished it and still lived. I once said that, could I meet any elf from the past, he would be my first choice. I would like to think I would have recognised him."  
  
"Which is why either myself or Erestor was always with Elrohir, so we could hurry him away should you come around. I kept your interest on me at the reception that first night, because I could not risk your taking too much notice of him. I apologise if that gave you hope of renewing our acquaintance . . . "  
  
Thranduil waved a hand. "I already had such in mind when I arrived in Lorien." He sat quietly for some time, then spoke. "After what we witnessed today, I cannot doubt your word, but I am unwilling to have . . . Elrohir . . . continue to think of me as an enemy and to deny his identity. He must be told."   
  
"In time, he will be, when he is old enough to bear it, assuming he has not already remembered for himself. I do not know if he will choose to go to Mirkwood when that time comes--naturally, I will do all I can to persuade him to stay with me."  
  
Thranduil inclined his head. "We agree, then. He will have his choice freely, when he is able to make it. Now, I have a story for you about the elves in the mines, and what Lord Elrond and I saw is almost as incredible as what you have told us."   
  
* * *  
  
Author's Note:   
  
I usually try to avoid explanatory notes; I don't like to read them in fic and I assume most people feel the same as they aren't all that entertaining. I will keep this one as short as possible, and I tacked it on to the end of the chapter so those of you with no patience for this sort of thing can easily skip it. But before I get howled at via e-mail, I did want to make a few comments in my own defense on the subject of the canonicity of this chapter.   
  
First, about Ecthelion. Ooooh, Ecthelion. WHY oh why is there not more Ecthelion slash out there?   
  
Point one: As far as warriors go--he was THE elf, wasn't he? Killer of, count them, THREE balrogs, all in the same day no less, one of which was the prince of balrogs, Gothmog, who had once killed off poor Fëanor when that mighty elf was fresh. The encyclopedia of Arda says about Fëanor that "such was the ferocity of his spirit that after his death, his body was consumed by flame." And this was the elf who LOST to Gothmog! Ecthelion slew the beast after killing two others just before, AND while wounded so that he could only use one arm. Does the phrase, "with one hand tied behind my back" mean anything to anyone? He just leaves the competition, all of the competition, even Glorfindel, standing. Yet almost nobody writes about him.  
  
Point two: Tolkien wasn't one to say much about the appearance of his characters. Even Galadriel and Celeborn--who fared better than most--were lucky to get a few lines each. But he was REALLY carried away by this elf. He spent a whole paragraph just describing his armor, for heaven's sake. So, if the old, rather stodgy (sorry but it's true) prof thought he was impressive, I'm thinking he must really be something in the looks department. I am assuming he was dark haired and grey eyed, because that is the description Tolkien says applied to most Sindarin elves (so maybe they shouldn't have bothered with the wig on Orlando in the film).  
  
Point three: Glorfindel and Ecthelion always seemed to be together; whenever one was mentioned, there was the other, almost like they were joined at the hip--so to speak. So, here we have the greatest warrior ever, gorgeous, and a good friend of Glorfindel's--all of which is canon. Add in that they both died the same way--fighting balrogs, and perishing selflessly to save others--and voila, a slash pairing par excellence is born.  
  
Last point: Why am I making him Sindarin when everyone knows Gondolin was a Noldorin city under a Noldorin king? For several reasons. First, Tolkien specifically said that there were a large number of Sindar living in Gondolin, and in that case, it seems strange that there would not be even ONE Sindarin officer among the king's guard. Second, all the other leaders of Turgon's army are specifically mentioned by Tolkien as being Noldor, every single one, but nothing is said about Ecthelion. Nope, not a word. Maybe Tolkien just overlooked it, but I don't think so, because, third, there's the name to consider. Ecthelion's title was the Lord of the Fountain and Lord of the People of the Fountain at Gondolin. Yet his name in Quenyan (the language of the Noldor) means "Spear-point." But in Sindarin, "ecthel" means fountain, which would make much more sense given his known titles. What would a Noldorin elf be doing with a Sindarin name? He wouldn't; ergo, Ecthelion was Sindarin. And, of course, Thranduil would have known about the most famous Sindarin warrior to ever live. Oh, btw, for as long as it lasts, there's a great image of Ecthelion slaying the balrog here:   
  
  
Second, about Glorfindel. I am assuming, as I have throughout, that Glorfindel of Gondolin and Glorfindel of Imladris are one and the same--according to Christopher Tolkien, his father decided this late in life so I guess I'm in the clear here unless you want to argue with the great man's son. Unfortunately, canon doesn't say exactly when Glorfindel was returned to Middle Earth or why. I have chosen to go along with Tolkien's suggestion (Last Writings, History of Middle-Earth XII) that Glorfindel's return very probably took place sometime in the middle part of the Second Age, so he would have been there well in advance of the Last Alliance. I explained my version of why he was sent back in the course of this chapter.  
  
It was obvious in my fic One Last Time that Glorfindel and Thranduil had never before met. Since the Sindarin and Noldorin armies were under different leadership and occupied different parts of the battlefield at the Last Alliance, they need not have met there, as Glorfindel was only one of Elrond's retainers, and not an advisor of Gil-Galad's. There would have been no reason for him to be included in high-level discussions.  
  
On the subject of elvish reincarnation, I can only point out that Tolkien himself changed ideas on this several times. Basically, he agreed in all sources that elves live as long as Earth continues, are composed of Fëa (the soul) and Hroa (the body) and that dead elves go to a place of waiting called Mandos where, after a time reflecting on their lives and mistakes, they can be reborn into new bodies as much like their old ones as their soul can remember. The only exceptions were those who did not wish to return and those who had seriously displeased the Valar and were forbidden to do so. The newly reborn elves would remember nothing of their former lives until they had matured. So the only place I have stretched a point on these matters is in making the reincarnated Ecthelion look like Elladan, which made sense under the circumstances. Otherwise, everyone would have known who he was from the first, thereby seriously messing with the poor elfling's head and ruining the Valar's gift.  
  
What Tolkien was unclear on, because he changed his mind over the years, was where these reanimated elves went. He seems to have finally decided that they lived in Valinor, not Middle Earth, but obviously he made an exception for Glorfindel. My point is that, if he could make one exception, why not two, especially if the second exception was done as a gift for the first? Anyway, that's my story and I'm sticking to it. 


	20. Chapter Twenty

Title: Wild Justice 20/?   
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer@hotmail.com  
Rating: R   
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline and my precious, evil mind.   
Feedback: Please!  
Warnings: BDSM. A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused.   
  
* * *  
  
Gildor sat in bed, staring at the mountain of books and treats Elwyyda had spent most of the day showering on him, and felt like screaming. All right, he told himself, get under control, breathe, be calm, meditate . . . he barely refrained from throwing something at the door she had just closed. This was intolerable! He had been convalescing for three days, and felt, if not perfectly well, at least perfectly well for . . . certain things. But he was constantly watched, almost a prisoner in his own room!   
  
He sighed, and wondered what was happening to him. He wasn't usually this edgy. He had learned to master his feelings through the long years alone, to concentrate on getting the job done, whatever it was, and not give in to isolation and loneliness. But now that he had tasted companionship and love and laughter and warmth, he had discovered a deep craving in him for more, a yearning that was made all the worse by the enforced inactivity of his convalescence.   
  
The problem was not in getting to Haldir. Gildor was confident he could manage that, despite Elwyyda's insistence on checking on him every hour or so on the excuse of bringing him more things he did not want. The only thing he really required was some quality time alone with his lover, and that was exactly what he intended to get. That raised the real problem, however, which was how to get past Haldir's defenses; he was taking Lord Elrond's prescription for rest to a ludicrous degree.  
  
Gildor had tried everything. He sent little love notes via Rumil, not one of which had received a reply. He asked that flowers be taken to Haldir's room from the gardens, combined with the wild elanor that he loved, but they had been ignored. He even went to the desperate length of ambushing Haldir on his way to the baths, dragging him momentarily into a linen closet, but he had fought his way free and hobbled off before much of interest had happened. It was as if Haldir was trying to prove something, although Gildor could not imagine what that might be, except perhaps that he could drive his lover crazy in less than a week. If that was it, he was well on the way to success.  
  
Gildor had nothing else to do but sit and ponder his problem. Well, he supposed that he could worry over what the team was likely to find once they reached the mountain, which he was well aware would likely be today, but it would do nothing except to plunge him into a state of extreme anxiety. He wanted to be with them, but he couldn't, and that was that. Better to concentrate on something he had at least a chance with--namely, seducing his recalcitrant lover.  
  
* * *  
  
Elrohir could feel Erestor's eyes on him, as he had for several days. Everyone else avoided him, apparently not wanting to have anything to do with the freak, but Erestor had approached him three times and constantly watched him. Elrohir didn't know if Glorfindel was doing the same, because he resolutely stayed as far away from him as possible, afraid that his control would snap completely and he would drag him off into the woods and ravish him. The king was here now, anyway, so obviously he wasn't wanted or needed. The three of them--Glorfindel, Celeborn and Thranduil--went into the king's tent every night and stayed up late, planning strategy, he assumed. He didn't want to know what went on after that.  
  
Erestor was not taking part in the strategy sessions, which seemed strange to Elrohir as he was his father's chief advisor and his counsel was usually sound. Of course, that had been true of the old, stable, sane Erestor, and might not be true of whoever he had recently become. Or maybe he had always been that way, and Elrohir had just never noticed. He wondered what you were supposed to do when your whole world shifted, and everyone you thought you could trust was suddenly shown to be not at all who you thought they were. He noticed that the sun was dropping lower, and soon they would be stopping for the night. Erestor would doubtless approach him again, and Elrohir had to think of some new way of getting rid of him.   
  
He really wished Ada was here, as he needed someone to talk to who wouldn't tell him insane stories that were obviously lies. He couldn't imagine why Erestor was doing so--if it was all some great plot to keep him from noticing what Glorfindel and the king were up to, it was a little late. And if word that he was supposedly a legend come to life ever got out . . . Elrohir shivered at the very thought. He would be a laughing stock for YEARS, and what Elladan would have to say on the subject didn't even bear thinking about. Elrohir had tried to explain that to Erestor, but he apparently didn't understand.   
  
All that ridiculous tripe about reincarnation was exactly that, no question. Everyone, even elflings, knew that reanimated elves lived in Valinor. It was true that Glorfindel did not, but he had been sent back specifically by the Valar to aid Elrond's family. He was an exception, rather like Elrohir's great-grandfather Tuor who, although born a man, was now living as an immortal in Valinor because of his service to Lord Ulmo. But there was absolutely NO evidence whatsoever that he was himself another such exception. He would have known. One didn't just forget an entire lifetime, especially one that eventful.  
  
Elrohir shifted on his horse, and tried to think of something else, but it was impossible. All right, look at the thing logically. First, did he have any strange memories of some past life? No. He did dream odd things sometimes, but everyone did that. And, if some of those dreams occasionally centered around the events in Gondolin, well, that was hardly surprising. His father loved history, and many of their evening conversations had involved one of Elrond's favourite topics--how his grandparents escaped from the doomed city despite all odds against it. He had heard the story of Lord Ecthelion slaying Gothmog so many times it would be strange if he HADN'T dreamed about it occasionally.   
  
Second, had he exhibited any abilities that could not be explained? No. He was a healer, trained for decades by Elrond of Imladris, so of course he had been able to help Camthalion. He had seen his father heal wounds like that before, if the injured was brought to him immediately. Elrohir himself had never before managed to do it, but then, he was young; perhaps that kind of talent took time to show itself. He would have to ask Ada on their return when he had begun to show signs of great healing ability; in all likelihood, it was at about Elrohir's age. At any event, he had never heard any stories about Ecthelion of Gondolin being a great healer, or even having any knowledge of the healing arts; so even if he was as powerful an elf as everyone was always saying, he could not have saved Camthalion, for he simply would not have known what to do.   
  
As far as Erestor's point about Lady Galadriel's difficulty in discerning his thoughts, well, there was an obvious answer to that, too. She couldn't read Lord Celeborn, or so he had heard it said, nor Ada, without their acquiescence. Wouldn't it make sense, as a descendant of both of them, if Elrohir had a certain amount of natural resistance also? Of course, Elladan had always been an open book to her, but then, his brother was like that about everything--no feel at all for guile. Sometimes, Elrohir seriously worried about him.   
  
The third point, however, was the deciding factor from Elrohir's perspective. Everyone knew of the great love between Ecthelion and Glorfindel. There was a painting in one of his father's books showing the two of them on horseback, Gondolin glimmering in the background. It was an image that had caused Elrohir a twinge of jealousy once he and Glorfindel came together, as the two warriors had looked so right together. Glorfindel had been clad in the gold and white of his house, the sunburst on his shield shining brightly in the morning light, his blue eyes reflecting the colour of the sky. Ecthelion had seemed his natural counterpart, dressed all in silver and diamonds like a sparkling moonbeam, his dark hair spilling about his shoulders and his grey eyes shimmering as brilliantly as his armor. Elrohir had comforted himself with the thought that, after all, it had been a very long time ago--before he was even born--and that Ecthelion was long dead. How ironic that the one he had looked at with such jealousy Erestor now believed him to be!   
  
It would be almost laughable to compare him with such a legend, even if Glorfindel had not made it obvious that he vastly preferred the charms of the King of Mirkwood. That just raised the whole thing to a farce, as it was something, Elrohir thought fiercely, that would never have happened had he really been Ecthelion. The two warriors were said to have been inseparable from the time they first met in Nevrast, before Gondolin was even founded. Theirs was one of the great love stories of all time, held up as an example of the possible cooperation between Sindar and Noldor. It even had the requisite tragic ending when both died in the same way on the same day, in defense of Turgon's line. No, Elrohir thought sadly, Glorfindel would never have betrayed Ecthelion; Elrohir, however, was obviously another matter. Erestor's nonsense about Glorfindel being heartbroken over losing him was now shown to be just another strange fancy of his. Elrohir decided that he had best talk to Ada on their return about arranging some rest for Erestor; he had obviously been overworked and was becoming dangerously unstable.  
  
Lord Celeborn called a halt soon thereafter, and to Elrohir's complete lack of surprise, he saw Erestor make his way towards him almost as soon as they had dismounted. Seeing the determination in Erestor's eyes, Elrohir briefly looked about for aid, but there was no one he knew well enough or trusted sufficiently to help him, Gildor having gone back with the wounded. He sighed. He had always heard that it was best to humour the mentally unstable, lest they become even more deranged and possibly dangerous. Erestor in a dangerous mood was not something Elrohir wanted to contemplate, especially since growing to know him a bit better recently. Yes, Elrohir decided as his father's counselor approached, best to just agree with him and wait to talk to Ada later.  
  
* * *  
  
Haldir looked up as someone knocked, feeling surprised. Lord Elrond was the only one who usually bothered with such a courtesy, although why he did Haldir had no idea. Yet Elrond had just left after stating that he would be unavailable for most of the day, as he would be occupied trying to help the elf they had rescued from the mines. Haldir's eyes narrowed. It could not be Rumil or Elwyyda, both of whom burst in on him without warning. It could not be a member of the guard, as they had all been removed when it was determined that Gildor's presence was sufficient to insure that Haldir would make no further attempts to escape. It could not be another well wisher for, although he had many friends in Caras Galadhon, the power hungry, sadistic and vengeful dwarf who guarded him allowed none through, on the flimsy excuse that he needed to rest. How talking with friends while sitting doing nothing in bed did not so qualify had not been explained.   
  
The knock came again, and Haldir bit his lip in indecision. He knew who it had to be, of course, so where was that good-for-nothing dwarf when he needed her? He certainly could not afford to be alone with Gildor at the moment. The sudden wave of delicious hunger that even the thought produced was enough testimony to that. He looked wildly at the window, but there was no escape there, for even though the guard who had been perched rather ridiculously in the tree had been removed, Haldir could hardly climb down with his ankle as it was. Besides, he had rebroken it in his last escape attempt and been told that, if he did so again, he would be tied to the bed until fully healed. He had no doubt that Rumil would do exactly as he said, tyrant that he had become lately. He had obviously been taking lessons from the dwarf . . .   
  
He had hesitated too long, for the door cracked open and Gildor's head poked around it, all tumbled curls and big brown eyes, followed soon by the rest of him when he saw that Haldir was awake. He had something tucked under his arm that on inspection turned out to be the chess set he had given Haldir for the anniversary of their first kiss. It had been a ridiculously sentimental gesture, which would have once elicited nothing more from him than a terse "thanks," but when Gildor did it he had merely adored. They had never had an opportunity to play, however, as trouble in the form of Orophin and the Peredhel brothers had fallen from the sky. Haldir was somewhat relieved to see the board as perhaps all his lover wanted was a few games. There was mischief in Gildor's bright eyes, however, and something about his smile as he joined Haldir on the bed that worried him.  
  
* * *  
  
The attack would be launched tomorrow at daybreak. Erestor had agreed with everyone else on the time, and he knew it to be logical. That didn't mean he had to like it. He had not managed to accomplish either of the main projects on his list, and was now running out of time. It was, he thought, likely to be a very long night.  
  
Elrohir was humouring him, allowing him to share his fire without so much as a murmur of protest after avoiding him steadily for two days. Even knowing that, Erestor intended to give this his best effort, but he was beginning to believe that he was wasting his time. "You are no different today, Elrohir, than you were yesterday, or any other. You are you, no matter what name you bear. You are still a warrior, are you not? You are still in love with Glorfindel, are you not? These things transcend time and petty concerns over what skin we wear. The heart endures, the soul endures, and YOU endure."  
  
"Yes, Erestor, of course." Elrohir looked at him with wary eyes as he began preparing dinner.  
  
Erestor ran a tired hand through his uncharacteristically dusty hair and wished for the baths houses of Imladris or the hot springs at Lorien. He HATED campaigns and the inconveniences that invariably went with them. At the moment, he was not far from hating stubborn elves, too. "You said to me yesterday that you cannot accept my words because you would then not be Elrond's son. I have thought on this, but your reasoning makes little sense to me. Why is it that you are not Elrond's son, but Elladan is? You share the same things--the experience of growing up in Imladris, the education, the pranks you pulled, even your bodies are virtually the same. The only difference is that Elladan has a newly created Fea, while you have one imbued with the experiences and memories of many years--and most would consider that a great gift. Oh, I know, you don't remember it all now, but in time, you will. And you may find your recollections useful."  
  
"Yes, of course, Erestor." Elrohir poked at the fire before him with a stick, then busied himself stirring the soup he had made in a little pot. Erestor was quite well aware that his former student had shut him out, almost as effectively as if he had not even been there, but he laboured on anyway, hoping that Elrohir might later think on his words.  
  
"What is a soul, anyway? Our parents do not make it, they simply form the body that houses it. If Elrond had to break off a bit of his soul to make that of his children, then I would allow that, yes, you could not be his son. But our beliefs have never taught any such thing. We believe, do we not, that ALL souls come from the Valar. So if they choose to make use of one a second time, instead of creating a new one, why should that concern us? Again I say, you are you, no matter the time period in which you live."   
  
"As you say, Erestor. Tea with your stew?"  
  
Erestor sighed, but accepted the bowl and cup. He was famished, for they had ridden hard all day, and was too tired to attempt further arguments. He doubted that Elrohir truly understood, but at least he had explained things now to the best of his ability. Elrond would no doubt do much better. Erestor vowed to talk with him as soon as they returned to Lorien about his son's insistent denial.   
  
Erestor looked up and caught Cam's eye across the width of the camp, but the Noldor immediately looked away. That was not surprising, as Cam had also scrupulously avoided him since THAT DAY, as Erestor had begun terming it to himself. He was yet another problem that Erestor didn't know how to resolve, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he did not know how to manage his own reactions. Elrohir wasn't the only one having to deal with new experiences lately.  
  
* * *  
  
"Your move." Haldir looked at Gildor, wondering what was taking him so long. If he had bought a chess board, surely he knew how to play? But Gildor had spent the last several minutes staring dreamily at him, and making no effort at all to move his pieces.   
  
He smiled now at Haldir's comment, and hesitated a moment before replying. "I know it is. I'm just unsure of how to go about it."  
  
"Well, those are pawns--the little ones in front. They have to be moved first, so your other pieces can get out. Except for knights, which can jump over them."  
  
"Hmm." Gildor carefully selected a pawn, and rolled it through his fingers thoughtfully. His eyes weren't on the board, however, but instead were caressing--there really was no other word for it--Haldir's body in the same way that his fingers roamed over the little piece. He reached over and trailed the cool surface of the pawn down Haldir's chest, pausing only when it bumped one of the buttons on the partially unfastened front of his nightshirt. "I see what you mean--they are rather like scouts, feeling out the enemy's defenses."  
  
Haldir caught Gildor's wrist, resolutely not stroking the soft skin although it begged for it. "Pawns never leave the board unless captured by another piece."  
  
"You captured me a long time ago." Gildor slid the pawn lower, pushing buttons open as it went. Its surface was cool, or maybe it just felt that way against Haldir's suddenly overheated skin.  
  
Haldir tried to glare at his lover, but doubted that he accomplished it. His features had the annoying habit of falling into a sloppy grin whenever his eyes lit on Gildor. "You promised when I said you could stay--just chess."  
  
"Hmm, but there are many variations on the game, aren't there? I have a proposal." Gildor tossed his messy curls back over his shoulder, distracting Haldir who had always preferred his lover's hair unbraided. It required a surprising amount of willpower not to bury his hands in that gorgeous, shining mass, then drag Gildor down to him and . . .   
  
Haldir reflected that he should have known better than to trust him. "You said you came here to play," he reminded him sternly, "so let's play."  
  
"Exactly what I had in mind," Gildor grinned at him, eyes bright and open and positively dancing with mirth. Haldir looked away from the face in front of him before its expression undermined his already frayed will power. However, his eyes just used the opportunity to admire the well-muscled shoulders and creamy skin that was barely concealed by the thinnest of tunics. He'd be willing to bet that Gildor wasn't wearing anything under that thin, red cotton, and he KNEW Haldir loved him in that colour . . . "I am just proposing a slight change in the rules." Gildor put his little dragon egg back on the board and beamed innocently. "Whenever one of us takes a piece, he gets a reward from his opponent. That's fair, isn't it?"   
  
"No." Haldir regarded him through slitted eyes. "I know what you are doing. And you know perfectly well that you are not up for it."   
  
Gildor laughed delightedly, but a beautiful flush bloomed on his cheeks. "Well give me a moment, and we'll see."  
  
"I don't know where you learned such appalling puns! You've been spending far too much time with my brothers."   
  
"And not nearly enough with you, something I intend to remedy." Soft lips quickly caught his and Haldir opened to them before he thought about it, but he broke away a second later, breathing laboured from the effort of holding back.   
  
"Lord Elrond said . . . "  
  
"That I am recuperating nicely--he told me so just this morning." Gildor's knowing hands found just the right spot behind Haldir's knees, and delicately teased the sensitive flesh as he pushed his legs slightly apart and knelt between them. Haldir made attempts to pull down his nightshirt and to keep his naughty partner from running hands up the side of his thighs, telling himself that this was wrong until Lord Elrond certified Gildor completely well, but his body was not listening. It seemed to think that Gildor had very good ideas and should be listened to carefully. Feeling his lover weakening, Gildor pressed his advantage, capturing his mouth again in a commanding kiss as he gently pushed him back against the bed's softness and slid a hand up his back to tangle in his hair.   
  
Haldir marveled again that kissing Gildor was so much more satisfying than doing so with anyone else. With his other partners, it had been a prelude only, and one he had rarely lingered on. But the current of mingled power and tenderness that Gildor conveyed was almost a climax in itself. It wasn't his lips, which although soft and warm and smooth, were no more so than any other elf's. It wasn't the way his body was so responsive, making Haldir's blood race as if he had fever, for he had known other receptive lovers. It wasn't the fact that his hard muscles felt so perfect under the soft contours of his tunic, for Haldir had known many who physically were closer to perfection. But he had never known one he wanted more, hungered for, melted for like this one. And he could never get enough of him.  
  
Haldir could not keep from moaning against those lips, or from giving in to the burn of arousal that followed the hands stroking down his sides and seizing his hips. He could feel the evidence of the younger elf's excitement pressing firmly against his inner thigh as Gildor pushed his nightshirt the rest of the way up and off his body. "I've missed you," Gildor murmured, tugging off his own tunic before sliding fully against Haldir. He lost himself for a moment in the sheer rushing bliss that pulsed between them as skin met skin, and in the sweet smell of his lover that overwhelmed his defenses as easily as if they had not even existed.   
  
Haldir was desperately trying to remember why he wasn't supposed to do this, but his brain was ignoring him, apparently having decided to join his body on this one. He suddenly realised that his hands were digging into the hard muscles of Gildor's back as he tried to meld their bodies even closer together, but his lover did not seem to mind, just used the maneuverability provided by Haldir's quickly loosened grip to begin kissing down his chest. Gildor missed nothing, alternately teasing and soothing, nibbling at his nipples, lapping at his naval, even sucking on his fingers when Haldir briefly tried to push him away.  
  
Oh, he was talented, Haldir thought writhing; Gildor had always known exactly what he wanted, precisely what drove him completely mad, and his long enforced celibacy made this like a feast set before a famine victim. With tongue and teeth working in talented tandem with fingertips, Gildor soon reduced Haldir to something approaching complete mindlessness. He surrendered to his senses, and they all seemed heightened, refined to some purer essence than usual: he could feel the slight calluses on Gildor's bow hand as it ran over the sensitive skin of his arousal, and the warmth of his breath as his tongue followed; could detect the few reddish highlights in his lover's hair, shining in the sunlight from the window; could taste the residue of Gildor's kiss, and tell that he had eaten honey pastries sometime that morning, or perhaps that was just his usual flavor distilled. So heightened had Haldir's senses become that he could almost discern the scent of individual herbs in the oil Gildor used to prepare him. It never ceased to amaze him that making love with Gildor was pure ecstasy each and every time, an experience to be savored, treasured, and remembered.  
  
A heavy beating reverberated through the room, breaking into his reverie, and Haldir stared about blankly for a moment before he realised what it meant. "There's someone at the door." It sounded ridiculous, and his brain woke up enough to inform him that he didn't care.  
  
Gildor apparently agreed. He smiled and slowly slid into him, the feeling so perfect that it caused Haldir's breath to catch in wonder. "No. There isn't."   
  
* * *  
  
"Lord Elrond, the door to Haldir's room is locked and I can't find the key. Rumil said he had it a little while ago, but doesn't know what happened to it. And I cannot find Gildor and Haldir will not open the door."  
  
Elrond looked up from his book. He had been trying to elicit a response from the king by regaling him with a recitation of his favourite parts of the Fall of Gondolin, when Elwyyda burst into his rooms, looking frantic. Elrond had seen both his other patients earlier that day, and was encouraged by their rapid improvement. He supposed an incentive helped. "I would not worry, Elwyyda. There are many ways of recuperating, and I do believe they deserve this one."  
TBC 


	21. Chapter TwentyOne

Title: Wild Justice 21/?   
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer@hotmail.com  
Rating: R   
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline and my precious, evil mind.   
Feedback: Please!  
Warnings: This is probably overkill, as I personally think this chapter is fairly mild and rather sweet. I know from past experience, however, that some others won't agree. So here is fair warning. This fic is rated for adults only. It is slash, meaning homoerotica people. It has added BDSM warnings plastered all over it. I won't read, much less reply to, any flames from anyone who ignores the warnings and gets squicked. For those of you who don't like this sort of thing, go read the last chapter again--it's safe. Then skip to 22.   
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused. This chapter is for Angilou.   
  
* * *  
  
The tea he was drinking was so hot it scalded his tongue. That was all right. That was how he liked it.  
  
Camthalion was accustomed to using pain as a distraction. Even before he met Erestor and learned that it could heighten pleasure, he had loved it for its numbing qualities. His group stood out among the Silvan elves of Lorien, and the people's love for their sovereign lady had never applied equally to her servants. Being different, being alone, being suspect, could get very tiresome over the centuries.   
  
But the mild sizzle on his tongue was totally incapable of distracting him from the dark vision who was slowly driving him insane. Cam had spent most of the day's ride trying not to look at Erestor, but his eyes refused to take the order seriously and constantly sought him out. Of course, Erestor had noticed. He was too aware of everything going on around him to do otherwise. His gaze met Cam's now across the breadth of the camp, even thought he had barely glanced at him, had just begun to admire the way his eyes became glittering black slits in the firelight, how his beautiful, soft hair made a dark halo around his perfect features . . .   
  
Cam tore his eyes away. This was useless. Erestor cared nothing for him. Ironic, how pleased he'd been to find out that he was only comforting the young Peredhil, and had no real feelings for him. How incredibly stupid, when it had been made more than obvious the past few days that the elfling's angst was more important to Erestor than Cam's life.  
  
He drank the rest of the tea, but it had cooled too much to provide any real pain. He knew he should sleep; they were attacking at dawn, and everyone had to be ready, but he felt that he would choke to death if he tried to lay down. Sleep would probably not come anyway, and if it did, it would only carry the dreams--vivid, agonizingly erotic dreams--that had tormented him every night since they met.   
  
** He gives me a long, savage kiss, his tongue cruelly invading me, depriving me of breath, of thought, of everything except him. I feel his teeth biting brutally into my parted lips. His hands viciously grip my shoulders while his arousal rubs against mine.**  
  
But daylight brought the harsh truth that they were only dreams; it was never Cam that Erestor turned to, but always someone else. Those dancing, elegant hands were sketching abstract patterns in the air as he tried to impart to the insipid child beside him some wisdom the elfling would never be able to understand. Nor would he need to; his father being who he was, Imladris' prince would have everything he wanted in life laid out before him like a feast, and he just had to pick and choose his favourite courses. The fact that Cam apparently owed him his life only made his jealousy that much more bitter--what had he saved him for, more centuries alone?  
  
** Then he bit his way up my thighs, leaving marks against the pale skin, and I whimpered and writhed beneath him, urging him on. Those beautiful red lips closed about my arousal, and he sucked hard, occasionally abrading it painfully with his teeth, while pulling and massaging my sac cruelly.**   
  
The stupid elfling didn't even want Erestor, was sitting there not even looking at him. All that splendor and brilliance concentrated on him, and the dense, blind creature could not even appreciate it. While Cam would have gladly begged for the scraps from that feast; a word, a glance, anything with affection in it, he would have prized and cherished. But there was nothing in Erestor's gaze the few times their eyes met but calculation. He supposed it was better than pity.  
  
** He twisted his fist in my hair, pulling it painfully. When he suddenly let go, I staggered and he backhanded me across the face, sending me sprawling to the floor. With an evil smile on his beautiful face, he walked forward, kicking my legs apart. His arm rose and fell, the crop falling across my cheeks and thighs, which were soon raw and red from the lash.**  
  
Cam could not stand seeing Erestor's face anymore, so cold and distant and so little like the way he imagined him in his dreams. He could not hear their conversation, but obviously he was pleading with the elfling for something, something Elrohir was refusing to give him. Erestor's eyes held an expression of concern as he spoke that Cam knew he would never see directed at him. He hated Elrohir, for throwing away as worthless that which he craved so badly. In that moment he also hated himself, for the love and desire and burning, aching need he could not deny. But he could not quite, despite desperate attempts, manage to hate Erestor. But neither could he endure laying there, dreaming of him, desperate for his touch, only to wake gasping and hard and alone yet again. There were other ways of passing the night.  
  
* * *  
  
Erestor could feel the weight of those eyes, burning with blue intensity from across the width of the camp. He almost dropped his cup, his hands were trembling so much, and he didn't know why. His bowels were twisting into knots of fire, as if they were melting from within. He knew he should go talk to Camthalion, but his utter failure with Elrohir was giving him pause. He was no longer certain of anything, much less his abilities to manage events into a nice, neat solution.   
  
This was ridiculous, he told himself, as Cam looked away, his eyes seeming to search for something in the forest beyond the camp. Erestor knew he had no reason to feel so panicked, almost as if he was terrified. All at issue was a simple conversation, and wasn't he one of Elrond's own counselors? Had he not participated in talks in which issues of momentous occasion were decided, more times, in fact, than he could count? So why should the idea of simply getting up, walking over the Camthalion, and initiating a discussion fill him with such dread?  
  
But, he argued with himself, this was hardly the time to seek out such a discussion, when he wasn't even sure what it was he wanted to say. Thank you for saving my life? It would be hypocritical, for Erestor did not feel like thanking him. Beating him into a pulp for being so obtuse, perhaps, but not thanking him. Still, the words should be said, had to be said, and he knew he had put them off long enough. Why was this so difficult? Three words, he told himself. Thank you Camthalion. Just three little words . . .   
  
Thank you Camthalion, he thought bitterly, glaring at the golden head burnished by the fire's flickering light. Thank you for arbitrarily deciding that you have the right to choose who lives and who dies. Thank you for clearly evidencing your brainless conclusion that your life means so much less than mine. Thank you for destroying the rest of my comfortable restraint and for forcing me to have feelings I can't control for the first time in my life. Thank you, thank you, thank you Camthalion . . .  
  
"Er, Erestor . . . are you all right?"  
  
Elrohir was regarding him with barely concealed trepidation. Erestor realised that he had been jabbing his dagger into the root of the dead tree trunk on which he sat; repeatedly, by the look of things, as the wood along one side was quite shredded. "Yes, Elrohir." Erestor's eyes narrowed as Cam suddenly jumped up as if bitten by something and fled into the darkness. "I think I'll just go take a walk."  
  
* * *  
  
The steady thud of the lash on his back was soothing, but the pain was too light to bring him the release he craved. He increased the tempo of his strokes, but somehow knew there would be no satisfaction in this even if it brought him to climax. What Cam really craved, he could not find alone.  
  
"Your technique needs work."  
  
Cam looked up to find Erestor observing him from the darkness of the forest. The small amount of skin beyond the enveloping folds of his robes was bleached almost white by the moonlight, while the rest of him blended into the shadows. Framed by his midnight hair, his face was ghostly, its expression almost sinister. Cam's eyes devoured him, not quite believing he was real, and he suddenly realised that he had tears in his eyes. They were tears of anger, of pain, of longing, all rolled up into a mass of emotion that defied description, even had he tried. At that moment, he loved his master and he despised him, and he honestly could not have said which emotion was dominant.  
  
Erestor noticed the clenched fists as Cam stood, half-nude and covered in his own blood, and smiled. He glided smoothly forward, his feet not seeming to even touch the rough forest floor. Cam wasn't sure if it was the stealth with which he moved--even now, when he did not need it--or the blood that pounded in his own ears, but it seemed that his master's feet made no sound on the leaf swept ground.  
  
"You'd like to hurt me, wouldn't you?" Grabbing a handful of Cam's hair, he snapped his head backward abruptly. "I can actually hear your heart pounding from here," he whispered, and the current of warm breath against his cheek told Cam that this, amazingly enough, was no dream. "And that look in your eye; it's positively feral. You want satisfaction, don't you?" Erestor's fist tightened until Cam thought he would rip his hair out by the roots. "You even crave it, I would say. But you won't get it that way."   
  
He released Cam so quickly that the elf stumbled, catching himself at the last moment or he would have fallen to his knees. Erestor held out his crop, and Cam did kneel then, kissing it, licking it, needing the control it represented so much that it hurt, far more than the silly toy in his master's hand ever could. Then it was suddenly withdrawn, and he looked up fearfully. "You don't know what you want, do you?," Erestor asked, his tone scornful, the contempt in his eyes as he turned away in the direction of camp a deliberate insult.   
  
"Master . . .", Camthalion wondered why Erestor was taunting him. He had already submitted; what was the point? Then he noticed that his master's mocking smile contrasted sharply with his flustered, restless gaze, and he understood. Erestor craved something, too, and it was not meek obedience, not tonight. Then Cam saw him, really saw him, for the first time that evening. Erestor's usually gleaming hair was dusty and hung limply about his face. His eyes were red and bloodshot, his lips pulled thin over tightly clenched teeth, and his hands--his always steady hands--were shaking. He was obviously over-stressed, tired and . . . could that be nervous?   
  
It seemed ludicrous to connect the cool, competent, dispassionate creature he had fallen in love with and the exhausted, anxiety-ridden, vulnerable elf before him. Cam realised for the first time how wearying these last few weeks must have been for him, and felt a surge of delight at the thought that, finally, Erestor needed him for something, instead of it being the other way around. Still on his knees, Cam nonetheless suddenly felt like the powerful one. Without permission, he stood and caught Erestor by his belt, dragging him across the few paces that separated them.   
  
Erestor's reaction to his boldness reinforced Cam' certainty that he needed this, wanted it, just would not admit to it: his nostrils flared slightly, as if savouring the mingled scent of Cam's sweat and blood; the full lips, looking strangely bloodless in the moonlight, were parted, as if he needed more oxygen than his system was getting; he leaned slightly forward, even while his eyes showed fear that he might surrender to something he had never even known he wanted. "Give in to me," Cam encouraged him, whispering into that beautiful ear. "There is no battle, no responsibilities, no tomorrow. There is only you and me and now." Erestor shivered, dark eyes strangely uncertain, but he made no objection as Cam slowly pushed him to his knees.  
  
* * *  
  
Erestor felt like he had fallen into a dream as he slowly allowed himself to be lowered to the forest floor. For a time, he almost forgot where he was, even who he was, as a dark tide of passion swept him to a place beyond thought, where worry and apprehension melted into liquid pulsing need, before evaporating away as if they had never existed at all. He could feel Camthalion's arousal even through the heavy material of his leggings. His partner thrust his hips forward into the caress of Erestor's lips, but when he went to undo the leather thongs, strong hands pushed him away. "Not like that, or do I have to restrain you?"  
  
Erestor put his hands behind his back and used his teeth. It really didn't matter; he was equally dexterous either way. The material fell apart and he stretched to take in the full extent of the warm softness then revealed. He amused himself for a while, stroking slowly and allowing his tongue to explore him fully, savouring the taste and scent and warmth of him as he teased Cam to within a heartbeat of release, then withdrew when the elf's breath quickened too much. Erestor knew perfectly well how good he was at this, and was therefore not surprised when Cam's knees almost buckled and he had to clutch the tree behind him for support.   
  
But Cam seemed to remember after a few moments that he was supposed to be leading this activity, and pulled away--quite a feat, Erestor thought, amused. His inner laughter must have shown in his eyes, for Cam let out a growl and attacked the buttons on his clothing, stripping the robes from his shoulders and dragging the tunic over his head without ceremony. Clad only in his travel stained shirt and leggings, Erestor doubted that he made an overly appealing sight, but Cam groaned as he ran his hands down the thin silk of his shirt, then bent his head to bite each of Erestor's nipples, pulling and stretching them through the delicate material until they popped.  
  
Ripping the shirt from him, Cam pushed him to the ground, lacerating his chest with his teeth. Ripping the flail from Erestor's hand, he then cut across the abused nipples, over and over. "I'm going to break you, destroy you, smash that perfect control," Cam told him, as the lash came down again and again. "Then remake you, rebuild you, until you're only mine!" Erestor kept his smile hidden more effectively this time, for it was obvious that Cam was giving his best effort, and the lash did feel good, causing a feeling of warmth and ease to flood him for the first time in days. He wished his eager student would not be quite so gentle, however, as he had barely even managed to draw blood.  
  
Camthalion suddenly stopped, and a second later slid up his chest, their blood mingling as he pressed Erestor down into the soft leaf covered ground and kissed him as if he expected the world to end at any moment. It shocked Erestor far more than the beating, for Elrond rarely kissed him; theirs was not that kind of relationship. They had a comfortable arrangement, and one that had lasted far longer than many built of supposedly more durable emotions than simple need. Both of them were too jaded to feel the ephemeral rush of youthful passion so often mislabeled love, or so Erestor had thought before this fateful trip to Lorien. Now Elrond was closeted with the only elf, as far as Erestor knew, who had ever caused him to shed burning tears of anguish at his loss. Erestor himself had never mistaken passion for love, had thought himself immune to all such silly emotions. But he had not wanted to see Elrond's face when he saw his beloved again, had, indeed, been afraid to do so. For always, there had been the deep, unacknowledged feeling somewhere within him that, despite ample experience, he was nonetheless missing something.   
  
He had secretly wondered why Glorfindel would choose to wait hundreds of years, merely on the promise that his long lost love would be returned to him. It had seemed folly when he did not take the handsome offer Thranduil made him, long before Elrohir was even born, an offer that would have given him a gorgeous and powerful lover, wealth, position--everything, in short, that most would kill for. Yet he had turned it down without hesitation, just as he had waited patiently for Elrohir to grow up before ever speaking to him of love. As Cam began kissing his cheeks, jaw and neck, Erestor thought he might finally understand why people would risk everything for this, for someone who could adore them--not the abilities they possessed or the wealth they brought, but just the person they were.  
  
* * *  
  
Cam felt tears on his cheeks, and wasn't sure whose they were. Erestor groaned into his mouth, arching up to rub their lacerated torsos together, and Cam knew his master wanted, needed, much more than he had given him. Rolling him over, Cam ran a hand softly over the perfect skin of his lover's back before beginning to give him the pain he craved, putting additional strength behind his blows. He did not stop until the skin before him was almost completely raw, then sat back, breathing hard, wondering what his lover would want now, desperate not to disappoint.  
  
As he waited, Erestor reached back, fingers clasping his abused buttocks, and spread them as widely as possible. Cam immediately knelt between his master's legs and, curling the lash around its handle, he used the whip to slowly invade him. The complete lack of preparation must have been excruciatingly painful, but Erestor nonetheless writhed up to meet the crop, riding it with apparent bliss. Cam pushed it in as far as he dared before wrenching it back out in one violent movement. But to his disbelief, Erestor not only did not scream, he barely moaned, sounding, if anything, slightly disappointed. Cam threw the whip aside and mounted him then, intent on eliciting some type of response from the stubborn creature below him.   
  
He did not know if this night was merely pity on Erestor's part, because he had noticed Cam's increasingly hungry stares, or if he, too, was nervous about what they would face tomorrow and desired to ease the tension in the emotional release of their actions. He did not dare to even hope that Erestor felt anything for him, for why would he? Cam had spent time asking about him--discreetly of course--but while few seemed to have much information, he had discovered one fact which helped to explain his lover's concern for the young Peredhil. Erestor was the long time lover of Lord Elrond himself. When Cam had heard that, it felt like his heart was being torn from him, for he then knew he stood no chance.   
  
He bit Erestor's neck hard as he slid into him, knowing this might be the last time they were together, for even if they both survived the mountain, he would return to the Lady's service while Erestor accompanied his handsome lord back to Imladris. Then, with that legendary beauty all to himself, what would he need with Cam? He felt Erestor clench around him, practically begging him to begin thrusting, but he waited, difficult though it was. Cam wanted to have his complete attention while he whispered his pain into that perfect ear, for why should he not at least have the satisfaction of telling him? Why should he be able to treat him this way, and never even have to hear about the agony he caused? "You toy with me, while your lord is busy. You play with my love while you wait for him. And as soon as he is not preoccupied anymore, you will leave with him, and I will be forced to remain behind." His sweat mingled with his blood and his tears, dripping slowly onto Erestor's cheek. "But, my beautiful lord, you WILL have something to remember me by. Something to compare with him the next time he takes you."  
  
* * *  
  
Erestor would normally have enjoyed the sensations Camthalion was giving him, mild though they were to what Elrond could elicit, but the words he spoke drove everything else from his mind. He had always laughed at stories in which people had sudden epiphanies during sex, for he was usually far too preoccupied to think clearly about anything in similar circumstances. But he did not feel like laughing now, as Cam thrust into him, deep and hard, his hands gripping his hips strongly enough to bruise, seemingly in a frenzy to do as he had said and permanently mark him as his own.   
  
Erestor barely reacted, too intent on the strange new idea that had occurred to him to do much to encourage his lover, who nonetheless continued to thrust mercilessly, the friction along his unprepared channel causing exquisite pain. After a few moments, Erestor reached his decision, then gave himself over completely to sensation, tilting his hips as much as he could, trying to impale himself even more on his lover's already impressive length. Cam lasted much longer than he would have expected, and was far stronger, forcing Erestor to clutch the grass on either side of him to keep from being pushed across the surface of the glade. Cam finally expended himself, spilling into him with a cry that sounded strangely like defeat, and collapsing onto Erestor's abused back with a strangled sob. His arousal softened and slipped out, causing another brief ripple of sensation through Erestor, who smiled. Cam had much to learn but, oh, instructing him would be a great pleasure.   
  
It took a few moments for Erestor to realise that Cam was in serious pain, although not of the physical kind. He rolled onto his side and wove a hand through Cam's damp hair to drag him into a searing kiss. He tasted sweet, beneath the blood and salt, the latter from the tears that continued to pour down his face. Erestor gathered him into his arms, rocking him like a child, letting him sob since it seemed to please him to do so. When he finally hiccupped to a stop some minutes later, Erestor raised his chin with a single finger and examined him. No, he hadn't been wrong. There was no mistaking the expression in those liquid blue eyes.   
  
"When I return to Imladris," Erestor told him softly, "you are coming with me. I will speak with the lady myself once all this is past."  
  
Instead of joyful, Camthalion just looked confused. "But . . . I failed you. You didn't even cry out! I tried but I . . . "  
  
Erestor smiled, his dark eyes laughing, and kissed Cam's lips again just because he could. He realised joyfully that he could do that whenever he wanted from now on, and made a mental note to put it high on his list of priorities. "Then you'll just have to work harder next time, won't you?"  
  
TBC 


	22. Chapter TwentyTwo

Title: Wild Justice 22/?   
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer@hotmail.com  
Rating: R   
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline and my precious, evil mind.   
Feedback: Please!  
Warnings: BDSM.   
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused.   
  
* * *  
  
Elrohir opened his eyes and looked about. He immediately knew something was wrong, for he was supposed to be in a claustrophobic glade near the Misty Mountains, not on a grassy hillside studded with flowers. It was also supposed to be either late at night or early in the morning, depending on how long he'd slept once he finally dropped off, not mid-afternoon. The sky was wrong for more than just the position of the sun; it had looked overcast even before evening fell, and Elrohir would not have been surprised to wake up to rain, but where-ever he now was, the sun shone merrily. He looked down at himself and then he knew he must be dreaming. He had never, in all his long life, worn an outfit like this.   
  
He had no more time to speculate, however, as a huge white horse reared up just over top of him, its massive hooves barely missing coming into contact with his skull. He rolled out of the way and leaped to his feet, ready to royally tell off the careless rider, when his eyes fell on the elf in question and his exclamations died on his lips. Oh.   
  
Other kinds often made the assumption that elves were immortal. That wasn't exactly true. Elves were fated to live as long as Arda lasted, but just as Earth aged, so did they, with subtle differences obvious over time. It was not difficult, for instance, for any elf to tell the difference between a very young and a very old example of their kind, even if they had never before met. The latter would not only have ancient eyes, but his or her body would also look perceptively older, if still youthful in the mortal conception of that term. So it was that Elrohir immediately recognised the extreme youth--probably less than a hundred years--of the elf looking down at him from atop the restless horse. It was not his age that confounded him, however, to the point of speechlessness.  
  
"Have a care!," the blond glared at him as he brought the massive stallion under control. "You should not hide in the grasses so, else someone will trample you one day!"   
  
Elrohir just stood, looking at the extremely beautiful and ridiculously young elf on the horse, his waist length hair flowing about him like a golden cloud. Elrohir had never seen him wear it so long or so loosely, with strands able to drift into his eyes. He had also never seen his face so open, so clear, so free of cares and concerns. His eyes looked bigger, too, or perhaps his face had not yet fully filled out to its adult shape. By the Valar, but he was stunning!  
  
"Do you speak, Sindar, or did you lose your tongue along with your clothes?" The mocking voice was familiar, and Elrohir bristled. Glancing down at himself once more, however, he could see that the rider, who was fully attired in a long white tunic and light grey leggings, had a point. He briefly wondered if this was one of those dreams where you wander around nude or nearly so, while everyone else makes fun of you. He sighed. Of course, Elbereth forbid that he should get a NICE dream for a change.  
  
"I speak, just not to arrogant Noldor who don't bother to look where they're going." Turning his back, he walked down the hill, away from the vision that was close enough to the one he remembered to cause a fist to close around his heart. He had not gone a half dozen paces, however, before a strong arm caught him and whirled him around. Angry blue eyes met his and a scowl came over the perfect face.  
  
"It is true what they say, then, that the Sindar are little more than barbarians, without even good manners to recommend them."  
  
Elrohir shook off the hand attempting to encircle his bicep with ease. How interesting; in this dream he seemed as tall as his companion, and bulkier than usual. He rather liked the advantage this gave him, as well as the gleam of admiration in his companion's blue eyes that not even anger could mask. Maybe this wasn't going to be such a bad dream after all.  
  
"If we're barbarians," he commented smoothly, "should you not take care, pretty Noldor? Riding about so carelessly, then issuing insults? What if I should . . . demand satisfaction . . . in a some truly barbaric way, of course?" Elrohir was delighted to see uncertainty come into the elf's eyes, and that he stepped back a pace. Pressing his advantage, Elrohir followed, for when would he ever have this chance again? "Here you are, in barbarian territory, too haughty to even follow local customs as to dress." He clicked his tongue and, in a blur of motion, pulled the elf's beautiful embroidered sash from about his waist. "I think I shall have to do something about that."  
  
"Give that back!" The blond reached for it, but Elrohir danced back out of reach.   
  
"Ah, but you are a Noldor lord, are you not? Surely, a mere barbarian such as myself could have no hope of eluding you?" He dangled the pretty sash from his fingers and grinned. "If you want it, come and take it." Then he was off, leaping onto the elf's horse and spurring its sides with his bare feet. It reared under him, then plunged for the distant line of trees along the horizon.   
  
Elrohir loved the feel of the wind in his hair, and was intrigued by the strange smell in the air. It took him some time to place it, and then he became even more excited. It was the smell of salt and much water, the indefinable breath of the sea. He had only been to the ocean once, and that when he was very young, but he remembered its distinctive smell. For a moment he forgot about being pursued, forgot even that he was dreaming, in the rush of excitement the idea of the sea rose in him. The horse under him bucked and reared as they reached the summit of a hill, but Elrohir soon had him back under control. Glorfindel had taught him to ride, and he had taught well.  
  
The trees formed but a thin line and behind them, golden dunes sparsely covered with vegetation soon gave way to a sandy shore, onto which little fingers of foam darted inland. Elrohir couldn't help it, he laughed in sheer joy at the sight, then leaped off the horse's back and plunged into the surf, heedless of the fact that the scarf he still held was getting soaked in the foamy water. When the waves surged against his thighs, he was grateful for the brief loincloth that was his only clothing, for it made bathing easy. Tossing it and the embroidered scarf onto the beach where they could dry, he plunged further into the water, unimpeded by anything except the jewelled armlets he wore.   
  
Oh, but he would have to arrange another trip to the sea when they returned to Imladris! He wondered why he had not done so before, as this was true bliss. Laughing, he pushed outward until the waves broke across his chest and pushed him slightly back towards the shore with each crash of their foam, shimmering in every shade of green, from emerald to turquoise, under the bright blue sky.   
  
So caught up was Elrohir in his pleasure that he almost didn't hear the mocking laughter from behind him. Some echo of it reached him past the call of the gulls and the ocean's song, however, and he turned to see the blond standing on the shore, holding a piece of cloth in each hand. "What do we have here? A stolen belt, a stolen horse and . . . what's this? A scrap of cloth? I'll take it with me as a souvenir of a most amusing morning, shall I?"  
  
Elrohir knew that it was unimportant; he was dreaming, after all, so what did it matter if someone made off with his dream self's loincloth? It hadn't actually been much of a covering, although the material was a good, heavy silk. Still, he didn't like the mocking air in the elf's tone, nor his deliberately provocative words. Another thought occurred to Elrohir, and he smiled, beginning a leisurely stroll towards shore. If this WAS just a dream, and nothing he did mattered anyway, then why not enjoy himself? It had been a very long time and, considering everything he had been through, he rather thought he deserved a little . . . amusement.  
  
"I never heard before that the Noldor are cowards." The blond had turned towards his horse, but Elrohir's words stopped him and he spun about, one hand still on the animal's bridle.   
  
"Explain why you use such a term of me, Sindar, and be quick."  
  
"Or what?" Elohir deliberately slowed his stride as he neared the beach, and did not bother to hide his smile when the elf could not keep his eyes on his face as he emerged from the waves. Deciding to play it for all it was worth, Elrohir stopped knee deep in the cool water and gathered his wet, dark hair off his shoulders and into a heavy club, which he proceeded to slowly wring dry. He couldn't see the picture he made, surrounded by the emerald sea, the diamonds on his armbands flashing in the sunlight, his body glistening with a thousand drops of water as the sun began to dry him, but he didn't need to. The effect was easy enough to read in the blond's suddenly dazed expression, and in the way his hand fell away from the bridle as if suddenly too heavy to lift.   
  
Finishing his task, Elrohir ran his fingers through his damp hair and then finished closing the distance between them. "You didn't answer me," he commented, retrieving his loincloth from the elf's limp grasp. He twined it around his neck and drew him close. "What terrible fate awaits me? I'm trembling to find out."  
  
Elrohir dicovered that the last statement was almost true, for the fingers he ran into the heavy blond mane were less than steady, but fortunately his companion was too distracted to notice. Strong hands gripped his waist, but instead of pushing him away as he had half expected, they drew him close, pulling his wet skin up against the dry softness of the elf's tunic. Before he could warn him that he was going to get all wet, the blond leaned in to press soft lips on his in a tentative but eager kiss. Elrohir responded for an instant, tasting that sweet lower lip briefly, before pulling back. "Are you sure you want to do this?," he asked, somewhat amused and a little surprised at the youthful vulnerability on the face before him. "I'm a wicked barbarian, after all; who knows what terrible ideas I might have in store for you?"  
  
The elf actually looked frightened for a moment, and his arms loosened. Elrohir wondered where he'd ever acquired his reputation for fearlessness; must have been at a later date. Sighing, he broke away, walking a little way up the beach, the pretty sash he'd reacquired trailing along in the waves that lapped around his feet. "I suppose it is true then," he tossed over his shoulder, "the Noldor really ARE all cowards."  
  
Elrohir heard the quick intake of breath and the sudden sound of boots hitting wet sand behind him, but he didn't turn until the Noldor was almost on him. Then, with a quick spin, he grabbed his pursuer and brought him down into the waves with him. The elf was quick, but Elrohir was quicker--he'd learned these manoeuvres, and more, from Glorfindel of Imladris, had he not? He laughed delightedly, a sound of true joy that echoed over the beach and startled some nearby gulls into flight. Pressing the writhing, squirming body under him down into the wet sand, he held him until his struggles grew less with his dawning realisation that he couldn't break this hold. Then Elrohir began undressing him, the same delighted grin on his features.  
  
First came the tunic, quickly becoming waterlogged but still possible to wrest over the elf's shining head. Elrohir tossed it several yards up the beach and then groaned as he looked down on what remained--why did he wear so many clothes on such a perfect day? Shaking his head, he wedged the infuriated Elda between his thighs and began to tug at the first of several shirts, the outer one, a deep grey embroidered with silver leaves and flowers, amused him--the Noldor had apparently always been a bit of a dandy--an impression reinforced by the fine silk of the white undershirt. Imagine, he thought as he tossed it aside too, wearing a whole shirt just for a tiny piece of it to show at one's neck! A serious waste of material, and a shame aesthetically, considering what it helped to hide.  
  
"You are beautiful, cousin," he murmured, ignoring the poisonous look on the handsome face below him. "Why hide under so many layers? Surely, you cannot be cold on such a day?"  
  
"Let me up, Morier, and I'll show you how I feel!"  
  
Elrohir laughed again at that. By the gods, this was the best dream he had EVER had! "You are incapable of rising on your own Beleger?" He clicked his tongue and ran an appreciative hand down that beautiful torso, pausing as a slightly larger wave than most managed to coat them with spray. "That is a shame. I had not heard our Noldoran cousins were so weak."  
  
The elf below him renewed his struggles in earnest then, as Elrohir had known he would, and it took some effort to avoid being thrown off. But Elrohir found that the form he had assumed in this dream was strong and well practised in the arts of war; all the blond managed to do despite his skill was to tire himself out. "Nadorhuan," he panted after some moments," Amin delotha lle! Let me up! I have done you no harm."  
  
Elrohir smiled at that and ran a finger around the top of the Noldor's by now sopping wet leggings. "You call repeatedly insulting me no harm? Threatening to steal from me no harm? 'Tis true the Noldor have strange customs, but I cannot think these things are permitted among you?"  
  
The blond flushed slightly, and looked a bit abashed. Elrohir found it utterly charming; he had never seen that expression on those usually perfectly composed features. "You stole from me first," the young elf commented petulantly. Elrohir regarded him silently for a moment, then they both broke into peals of laughter, which was only silenced by another wave crashing into them. "Let me up, cousin, and claim what forfeit you will for my unthinking discourtesy."  
  
Elrohir felt his smile fading as he regarded the picture the elf made, his long blond hair floating about his head in the shallow water, his pale skin flushed and beaded with foam, his eyes the same colour as the sky. Something about Elrohir's expression must have registered on his companion, who flushed more and wriggled beneath him, worry coming into those sapphire eyes. "Let me up, cousin," he said again, but his tone was less sure.   
  
"Oh, I will," Elrohir promised, "but I want my forfeit first." Without giving him time to complain, Elrohir dipped his head and captured that inviting mouth, sliding up the length of the blond's body as he did so. The figure beneath him squirmed in protest, but only for a moment, and then the hands trying to push him away were pulling him closer, and the mouth that had been closed so stubbornly against him opened invitingly.   
  
The kiss was strangely familiar and yet strangely new. The taste was the one he knew, sweet and spicy and richly addictive, but there was hesitancy in the tongue that tentatively stroked his that had never been there before, and a naiveté in touch of the hands against his back that was definitely different. Elrohir was gentle, but insistent, and soon the body beneath his began to respond to his nearness in an unmistakable way. He dropped a hand to caress the young one's arousal through his wet leggings, but his action seemed to panic the elf instead of giving him pleasure as Elrohir had intended, and he renewed his struggles. Elrohir was so surprised by the thought that suddenly occurred to him that he let the blond slide out from under him without protest.  
  
"Amin hiraetha, I did not realise, cousin," he told him truthfully.  
  
The elf quickly gathered up his clothes, seeming flustered by the bulge in the front of his leggings. "I . . . I have to get back. I rode out with my friends and they will be looking for me."   
  
Elrohir watched him with concern. He had not meant to frighten him, but it had been so long since he felt that body against his, that he hadn't been able to resist. "It was just a kiss, Heruamin--it was nothing to upset you."  
  
The Noldor vaulted up on his horse and looked back at Elrohir, who remained reclining among the waves. The elf hesitated, and his eyes seemed unable to tear themselves away from Elrohir's body, but a moment later he was gone without another word, galloping through the surf as if all the orcs in Middle Earth were after him. Elrohir lay back in the surf, finding the cool embrace of the water comforting, as he wondered why he cared so much that he had frightened a figment of his imagination.   
  
* * *  
  
Elrohir looked about the cool marble halls uncertainly. He knew that he had never seen this place before, yet somehow it was familiar. Had he dreamed it at some point and then forgotten until now? He didn't usually have recurring dreams, but then, he didn't usually have such vivid ones, either.   
  
Somehow he knew he should not loiter here in a damp loincloth, even though the hall seemed deserted. He followed his instincts and took the west-facing hallway out of the centre atrium and, after some twists and turns, came on a large, heavily carved door through which an elf in flowing silver robes was disappearing, his arms around a large bundle. Elrohir followed him into an extensive suit of rooms with heavy furniture, much of it carved like the door with trailing vines and leaves. A huge silver shield on the wall caught his attention; it would have been difficult to ignore as it was situated to catch the light streaming in from a window on the opposite side of the chamber. And it certainly did, he thought in amazement, as a prism of colours sparkled off the thousands of diamonds or crystals set into a shimmering starburst pattern.  
  
"Ah, my lord, you are back!" The dark haired elf he had followed came bustling across the room towards him, his face almost hidden by the huge breastplate he carried. "I was beginning to worry. The ceremony is in less than two hours! You must hurry and get ready."  
  
Before he had a chance to protest, Elrohir was pushed unceremoniously onto a stool and the dark elf, who never seemed to stop talking, bustled about, brushing the salt out of his hair and braiding it carefully into warrior's braids at his temples, then slipping him into a padded tunic and leggings before beginning to help him into lightweight but sturdy mithril armor. Elrohir allowed himself to be pushed about like a puppet, as he was still a little confused about just why he had not woken up yet. Surely, this was a very long dream? And his father had never read him anything about this--was his brain just making it all up?  
  
He realised where he was, of course, for he had seen numerous paintings of Gondolin and this was definitely not the white city the scrolls said had rivaled Tirion itself in beauty. This must, then, be Nevrast, and Elrohir took a moment to bless his father's love of history as the last of his armor was buckled onto him. King Turgon, son of the High King Fingolfin, ruled here, and must be even now contemplating building the hidden city Ondolindë, or as it would more commonly be known, Gondolin. That meant that this had to be sometime in the early First Age, before 126 in any case, at that date marked the completion of the hidden city. He wanted to just ask the date, but even in a dream that would sound strange.  
  
"Ah, yes!" His servant, and Elrohir somehow knew his name was Lothion, seemed pleased about something, and dragged him into the next room to look in a floor length mirror beside an elaborately decorated bed covered in silks and satins in bright, almost gaudy colours, and far too many pillows. Elrohir was about to protest--he needed to know just WHY he was being put into full armor--but stopped when he saw his reflection. He decided that what he really needed was to sit down.   
  
The elf looking back at him resembled him in colouring and superficially in facial features, but it was not the similarities that caught his eye. He had never, he thought fervently, in his whole life looked that good. This elf appeared older, harder and somehow more experienced than he had ever been. None of his surprise or indecision showed on the face before him; its pewter coloured eyes were amused and its sensual lips were curved in a small smile. A mass of dark hair fell about the powerful shoulders, which were encased in the most spectacular armor he had ever seen. Its silver exterior shone mirror bright, except for patches where the diamond star pattern from the shield was repeated in dozens of small, miniature designs all over its surface.   
  
"Your new armor is becoming, my lord," Lothion said, running a cloth over its already perfect surface. Elrohir didn't answer him--he doubted that he could have. Thankfully, Lothion was apparently as incapable of sitting still as he was of being quiet, meaning that Elrohir had to do very little as the other elf bustled about. Which was just as well, for his head was spinning and he felt weak at the knees. " . . . a certain victory!"  
  
"What?" Elrohir wished that he had, at some point in his life, learned to pay more attention to what was happening around him, rather than going off into his own little world. Lothion hurried off to answer a knock at the door without answering him, and Elrohir suddenly felt in need of some fresh air to clear his head. He noticed a wide balcony beyond the bedroom, where a warm breeze beckoned. Leaning against its railing, he admired the beauty of the gardens beyond, which were rather wild but nonetheless attractive. Red petals from the wild rose that twined about one of the nearby posts blew across his vision as he heard Lothion's voice behind him. Elrohir turned and once again saw the golden haired elf, his blue eyes reflecting shock and something like panic as they met his, but Lothion had closed the balcony doors to give them some privacy and there was no escape for either of them.  
  
"You didn't tell me!," he accused. He looked so outraged that Elrohir felt his own confusion momentarily submerged in laughter. "Do not dare to laugh at me you . . . you Sindar!"  
  
"Don't you think we can call a truce, at least for the afternoon? I won't refer to you as a haughty Noldor, if you will refrain from calling me a barbarous Sindar." Elrohir smiled as winningly as he could, as he appreciatively took in the golden armor worn by the Noldor youth. He would gain some power with age, and add a little bulk to his musculature, but it was amazing how like his older self he was. "You look very handsome, Lord Glorfindel."  
  
"You knew who I was all the time! Why did you never give me your name?"  
  
Elrohir smiled--this was just too delicious. He did not even try to resist using Glorfindel's old phrase from the classroom, which had been levied at him enough times for not thinking things through. "You did not ask, lirimaer."  
  
Glorfindel flushed. "You have no right to call me that."  
  
Elrohir leaned against the wooden beam of the balcony and shrugged. "But it is true. You look well." The golden armor, as brightly polished as his own, the flowing white cape and the perfectly groomed blond tresses, which showed no ill effects from their seaside escapade, bore out his statement.  
  
The elf before him shifted slightly, his expression uncertain, and he deliberately did not look at Elrohir. "We should go. The ceremony will begin soon. I am to escort you."  
  
"Then I am doubly fortunate." Glorfindel shot him a suspicious glance at that, but said nothing. Elrohir took his shield from the wall as they passed through the inner rooms, assuming that whoever had arranged all this wanted the full effect, and followed Glorfindel out into the palace.   
  
The main hall was deserted no longer, he noticed, and blinked slightly at the huge throng of elves lining the massive chamber and portico beyond. Through the main doorway leading to the front of the palace, he could see that banners had been set up and were fluttering in the breeze, their brightly coloured surfaces bearing the impressions of a hundred noble houses, some of which he recognized from his lessons and some that he did not. Elves bowed and curtsied as they passed by, the respect bordering on awe in their faces a new experience for Elrohir. His youth had always worked to negate much of the deference he might otherwise have received as Elrond's son, with even the servants at Imladris treating him more like a favourite pet than heir to the realm. If he or Elladan became too rambunctious as elflings, the older servants did not bother to wait for Lord Erestor to rebuke them, but hurried them out of the way with, like as not, a swat on their bottoms to speed them along. This, then, was a very new experience for Elrohir, who somehow knew that here he was being lauded for things he had done, not for whose son he happened to be.  
  
In the main hall, the king--Turgon, he assumed--waited atop a large dais that had been draped with sapphire fabric. When Elrohir and Glorfindel entered, a line of trumpeters situated all along the cavernous room broke into a deafening salute. Elrohir managed to keep a smile on his face as they moved forward, and, he hoped, not to show the nervousness he was feeling. He was pleased that many of the faces in the crowd looked familiar, even if he could not put names to them at the moment.   
  
The ceremony was short but impressive. He had been right about time; it was the seventy-fifth year of the First Age, and Morgoth had just sent floods of orcs to invade and attempt to destroy Beleriand. Fingolfin and Maedhros were raising armies to oppose them, part of which would be drawn from Nevrast. The ceremony was to strengthen the elvish alliance by formally uniting the Sindarin hosts of Nevrast with the Noldor under Turgon's leadership, and the means of doing so was to make a Sindarin prince one of the captains of the king's host. Elrohir had to give his companion credit; Glorfindel might be contemptuous of the Sindar, but he gave no sign of it during the ceremony.   
  
Rising from his knees as a newly commissioned officer in the king's guard, Elrohir lost sight of Glorfindel as he was swept away by a crowd of rejoicing Sindar, and was soon caught up in a huge celebration. Everyone feasted and drank as if there was no tomorrow, which, he supposed, from their point of view there might not be. He, of course, knew that they would win an overwhelming victory, but no other elf present that night had that comfortable security. It suddenly occurred to him, sometime later, to wonder how a youth like Glorfindel, untried in battle as he must be at this point, was handling the pressure of the upcoming events. With difficulty, he broke away from the throng and went to search out his future lover.  
  
He finally found him sitting on a bench on top of the hill that overlooked the palace complex, alone and looking up at the stars. "You look pensive, lirimaer."   
  
Glorfindel did not even bother to turn around at his approach, just continued to look out over the star field that seemed to surround them at this height. The lights spilling out of the palace were far away and insignificant compared to the enveloping darkness. "I told you not to call me that," he finally said, after a significant pause.  
  
Elrohir ignored him and settled himself on the bench at his side. "You have chosen a beautiful spot. It is good to recall that there is beauty in the world, before one has to witness the uglier side of life."  
  
Glorfindel looked down at his hands, apparently lost in thought. Elrohir let him alone, remembering his own first encounter with violence. He had always thought it unfortunate that he grew up in a time when orcs menaced much of Middle Earth and it was foolish to go anywhere without a heavy escort. Now he wondered if that had not, in fact, given him an advantage. Since he had always known attack could come at any time, he had been prepared for it. Weapons use and battle tactics were as much a part of his studies as history, music or art. The first time he had encountered orcs, then, on a training mission with Glorfindel at barely age thirty, he had made his first kill almost as a matter of course; he had, after all, been training for it his whole life. But now he wondered what it was like to face battle mentally unprepared, for he doubted Glorfindel was old enough to have taken part in what would one day be called the Second Battle of Beleriand that marked the beginning of the First Age.   
  
"It will be all right," he commented, when Glorfindel continued to say nothing. "We WILL be victorious." He smiled ruefully, thinking that he could, if he wished, tell the young Glorfindel exactly how the battle would go, practically an hour-by-hour account. His harsh schoolmaster had, after all, drilled him on it often enough. Perhaps now he understood why; this must have been a formative influence on him.   
  
"And if we fail? There is no other power capable of standing against Morgoth."  
  
Elrohir shrugged. "We won't fail." He suddenly had an itch on his back and wished that, like Glorfindel, he had changed out of the all-enveloping armor as soon as the ceremony was over, but he had liked it too well. He had never seen any to equal it, not even that his father had worn in the Last Alliance, which was still preserved at Imladris.   
  
"What are you doing?" Glorfindel looked up as he rose, and his face was pale in the moonlight. He looked very young to Elrohir.   
  
"I have to get out of this armor--it is itching me terribly. Come back with me? We'll have a drink and talk about the battle and how we are going to make Morgoth very sorry he ever heard of Beleriand!"  
  
Glorfindel looked uncertain. "Won't your friends miss you?"  
  
"Won't yours miss you?"  
  
Glorfindel smiled at that, and shrugged. "Everyone is too intent on drinking the night away to notice. For some, it will be their last night to celebrate. They were saying we should . . . "  
  
"Yes?" Elrohir wished Glorfindel would make up his mind; the itch had spread and was driving him crazy.  
  
Glorfindel looked at him for a long moment, his eyes dark in the dim light. "You look like part of the night," he finally said softly, "a herald from Elbereth, clothed in starlight, sent to bring us words of comfort . . . "   
  
Elrohir laughed. "I can assure you, lirimaer, you need have no worries for the future." Well, he thought, not for another four hundred years or so, anyway . . .  
  
Glorfindel seemed to suddenly decide something, for he stood, shaking out his robes. "I will have that drink." Elrohir wondered why he sounded as if some momentous decision had been reached.  
  
They walked back in silence, dodging the groups of merry makers that populated the gardens, especially heavy near the hall where huge tables of food and wine were being replenished for the third time. Elrohir thought the atmosphere strange. Despite the music and laughter, cheerful banners and glowing lights, there was strain on most of the faces, and many of the smiles seemed forced. He would not have been tempted to linger in the torch lit gardens or the great hall, even if he had been less uncomfortable in his attire. The whole palace felt like a house in the middle of a wake.  
  
He let Lothion help him out of his armour then dismissed him for the night. Let him go eat and drink with the others; he doubted that his loquacious servant would notice the undercurrents in the atmosphere. Glorfindel watched apprehensively as Elrohir pulled off the hot, scratchy tunic and headed for the bedroom, intent on finding something less uncomfortable to wear. He had just shed the padded leggings, which kept the mithril plates from chafing his legs, and was rummaging around in the huge wardrobe when he felt a hand slide tentatively down his back.   
  
Elrohir didn't turn around, much though he was tempted, but continued his search as he tried to decide what to do. Berating himself as an utter and complete fool, he wondered why he hadn't anticipated this. Of course; the obligatory pre-combat coitus. Curse it, why weren't there any normal clothes in this wardrobe? He finally gave up, sympathizing with Ecthelion's preference for running about half nude if these overly ornate robes were his only options, and turned to face Glorfindel wearing nothing more than his loin cloth, once again.  
  
"Lirimaer," he caught the young elf's wrist before he could go exploring any further. "I think you should ask yourself if this is what you really want."  
  
Glorfindel didn't answer, just stepped back and pulled his tunic over his head. In the light from the candelabra his skin was as golden as his hair, and Elrohir had difficulty concentrating enough to form coherent sentences. He stood, feeling torn, as the shirt followed the tunic and the leggings followed the shirt. He should probably send him away, he thought vaguely; he is just nervous and doesn't want to think about the battle. He is using you the same way those other elves are using the king's cellars--to forget for a few hours what they are facing tomorrow when they ride off to join the High King.   
  
Then again, he thought, as Glorfindel sat on the edge of the bed, looking lost, if you send him away, won't he just find someone else? Someone who may not be as gentle, may not care about him as much? He knew he was rationalising what he wanted to do, but he also knew that he was right. And he DID want this, wanted it so very much . . .   
  
"Glorfindel," Elrohir sat beside him, and put out a hand to smooth the other elf's hair. "We can just talk if you like . . . have a few drinks . . . we don't have to do this if . . . "  
  
He never had the chance to finish the thought, as his lips were captured in an inexpert but heartfelt kiss. Elrohir felt the tension drain from him as he relaxed into the embrace he knew so well. This was where he belonged, where he had always belonged, in the arms of the lover who was also his best friend. This was what he had been craving, all those lonely, tortured nights alone. Kissing Glorfindel felt like coming home.   
  
When the elf in his arms moaned against his lips, Elrohir thought it the most sensual sound he had ever heard. He pressed him backwards onto the huge bed when they finally drew apart, and decided that he was going to enjoy this night, even if it was only a dream. He thought of Thranduil seeing Glorfindel like this, his golden hair spread out about his head, his eyes dark with passion, his lips glistening from where he'd just licked them in anticipation and nervousness. Elrohir decided that, as soon as he woke up, he would throw the king into a ravine. A really deep ravine.  
  
"You are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he told Glorfindel truthfully, brushing a loose lock of hair from his lover's forehead. He wished he could speak of his love, his longing, his need for everything they had once had, but this Glorfindel would not understand that. He did seem to understand something else, however, for he took the initiative to draw him into a deep kiss, while sliding his hands down Elrohir's hips to push at the cloth separating them. Elrohir was happy to assist, and soon warm skin slid against warm skin, and he thought he would pass out from sheer happiness alone.  
  
Then he woke up.   
  
It took a few minutes to understand what had happened, as the early morning light shone in his eyes and Erestor's face, looking tired but somehow more tranquil than it had last night, appeared hovering above him with the news that they would be leaving shortly. "You look exhausted," Elrohir told him, as his mind tried to jump thousands of years in a few seconds. He felt dizzy, tired and extremely frustrated.   
  
"So do you."  
  
Elrohir blinked at him. "It was a busy night."  
  
"Yes . . . yes it was."  
  
Over Erestor's shoulder, Elrohir saw Glorfindel, looking so similar and yet so different from that other time, with lines of worry on his beautiful face and weariness in his blue eyes. An elf stood at his shoulder, a large, blond elf with a hearty laugh who looked perfectly rested and beautifully groomed as always. Elrohir didn't even hesitate. Throwing his blanket aside, he crossed the camp in half a dozen long strides, grabbed Thranduil by the front of his perfectly pressed robes, and slammed him against the trunk of a nearby tree.   
  
The king's eyes widened in surprise, but Elrohir barely noticed. He wouldn't have cared anyway. "He. Is. Mine. Touch him again and I will personally castrate you." Dropping the king, who barely managed to avoid landing in an inelegant heap, Elrohir grabbed Glorfindel by the hand and dragged him into the forest.   
  
Once they were sufficiently far away from camp, Elrohir turned and pulled his lover into a passionate kiss, wrapping one leg about him in case he had any idea of trying to leave. After a moment, it became obvious that Glorfindel intended no such thing. Elrohir looked at him with satisfaction when they came up for air. "Now. Where were we?"  
TBC  
  
Morier--dark one.  
Beleger--Mighty one.  
Nadorhuan--Cowardly dog.  
Amin delotha lle--I hate you.  
Amin hiraetha--I'm sorry.  
Heruamin--My Lord. 


	23. Chapter TwentyThree

Title: Wild Justice 23/?   
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer@hotmail.com  
Rating: R   
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline and my precious, evil mind.   
Feedback: Please!  
Warnings: BDSM.   
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused.   
  
* * *  
  
Elrond was surrounded by a landscape that resembled a battlefield, but it was the strangest one he had ever seen. In a great, black emptiness, shattered pieces of what looked like glass were haphazardly scattered about, none of them whole. A few stood on end and resembled full-length mirrors, only they were taller than his head and twice as broad as a mirror should be. Cracks could be seen even in those, however, and most lay in broken piles, a ruin of a puzzle that defied anyone to sort it out. But that, somehow, was precisely what he had to do.   
  
Elrond had seen something like this odd scene before. He had occasionally been called on to help in cases of mental illness or injury, and knew that the velvety darkness surrounding him was his mind's interpretation of its interaction with another individual's brain. The memories were stored in mental projections that varied depending on the imagination and life experiences of the mind's owner. Most people envisioned huge chests of drawers or endless rows of boxes, but a few were more inventive. Once he had been in an old human woman's mind, trying to help her remember the face of the person who had attacked her family and stolen most of their possessions; he had finally located the memory and coaxed it forth, and the man who was responsible was brought to justice. Her mind had stored its memories in knitting baskets, with the strands of thought resembling the woolen yarn she had made into clothing for her family all her life.   
  
Elrond still remembered kneeling for what had felt like hours, sorting though tangled strands of multicoloured wool in basket after basket, searching for the right one. But that had been child's play compared with this. At least the memories had all been whole; they were simply confused by her age and the strain of her recent experiences. The knotted strands had all been there, all that was needed was the patience to unravel them. This situation was far more serious. Elrond had originally thought that, to restore the High King's memory would merely entail removing the blocks and painful suggestions implanted by the Nazgul; never had he imagined damage like this.   
  
For a while he sorted through blackened shards, most reflecting nothing more than his own face back to him, whatever memories they once held now irretrievable. Finally he came across a large sliver that glinted with colour and movement. Across its fractured surface he saw a ballroom filled with dancers, which he recognised immediately as the   
main hall at the High King's court. It took him a few minutes, but he was even able to place the scene--the lavish ball that had been given to welcome Lady Arenal to court. Elrond could see her occasionally, a dark haired beauty with huge blue eyes, who danced as well as she seemingly did everything else.   
  
She moved about the periphery of the scene, however, and the king's eyes did not linger on her despite the pretty picture she made. He would have perhaps paid her more attention if he had known what was coming, doubtless they both would, but that night they had still lived in the comfortable illusion of stability. They had thought that nothing could challenge their happiness, nothing could ever separate them. Elrond marveled now, as his own laughing visage came into sight on the king's right, how carefree he had looked then, with no idea of the shock that awaited him the very next day.  
  
As the High King was the last of the great Noldorin rulers, many of his counselors had long encouraged him to marry and produce an heir. Elvin immortality had not saved his predecessors from meeting early deaths and there was no one to follow after him in direct succession. Ties between the elvin peoples were fragile even with a strong ruler to unite them. If his line should fail completely or a much younger, half-elvin successor be crowned, the resulting crisis in leadership could see the various groups in Lindon hopelessly divided, and their enemies would be quick to use the internal strife against them. The king had nonetheless demurred, time and again refusing proposed alliances, until, unknown to him or to Elrond, his senior advisors took it upon themselves to solve the issue. They believed that he could be persuaded to accept a bride if a suitable candidate was found and brought to court. Such a one was located and the councilors did all they could to insure that this time, he could not turn her down.  
  
Elrond shut his eyes, remembering the scene as clearly as if it had just occurred. He had been awakened early the next morning by a message that the king wished to see him urgently. That had been unusual and spoke of some crisis, for they were accustomed to meet after breakfast to deal with the day's paperwork in the library, and that was only a few hours away. Elrond had thrown on some clothes and hastily made his way to the king's chambers where he found Gil-galad alone and pacing agitatedly about the room. The sight had stunned him, for the king was rarely daunted by even the greatest of trials, and to see him visibly upset was almost unprecedented.   
  
"They have betrothed me, Elrond! Titton and Ithildin and the rest." The king's dark blue robes swirled about him as he strode back and forth over the huge carpet of his private study. They must have told him over breakfast, for he was only half dressed, with his velvet robe belted casually at the waist and his dark hair still mussed from sleep. They had both been tired after the banquet and dancing, which courtesy required the king to see through to the end, and had not paused the previous evening for more than a quick kiss before going to their separate chambers. Elrond regretted that as he stood, listening to the story the king poured out in fits and starts, his usually crystal clear voice hoarse and strangely muffled. He had wondered if they would ever be together again.  
  
"The Lady Arenal--she is Sindarin as you know. They sat there and praised her beauty and learning and family line, as if they were discussing some brood mare I was to purchase! It was almost amusing, until they told me that they brought her here on the understanding that there is to be a betrothal! They pompously informed me that the union will strengthen the ties between our two peoples, as well as provide me with an heir, and that they were so sure of my acceptance of my duty that there was no need to ask me beforehand!" The king's voice shook on the last comment, and he abruptly sat, at the very table that his once trusted advisors had recently vacated.   
  
"But, surely, they cannot force you to wed?" Elrond's head had been spinning so that he could hardly manage a clear thought.  
  
"Have you not heard me, Elrond? Do your usually quick wits fail you? They have issued the summons to court in my name! Her family believes that I asked her here, that the idea of our union was mine! Almost her entire clan came with her, all under the impression that they are soon to have a Sindarin queen. Tell me, what do you think will happen if I refuse her now? How much damage would turning down, and thereby publicly humiliating, a daughter of one of the great Sindarin houses do?"  
  
Elrond had understood in that instant just how many horns were attached to the dilemma with which they had been presented. To refuse her was impossible; it would, at best, do irreparable damage to Noldorin and Sindarin relations, and at worst . . . well, wars had started for less. It would certainly be seen as an insult to her entire family, and was likely to appear a direct snub to all the Sindar. To refuse the betrothal issued in his name would be tantamount to saying that the king considered the Sindar beneath him, and the already prickly Sindarin pride would never forget such a slight.   
  
Elrond could only look at his king in mounting horror, an expression Gil-galad was quick to note. Pouring him a cup of rapidly cooling tea, he pushed it across the table. "Sit, Elrond, drink something. You should see yourself--you look like a ghost. I need your counsel, my friend, as rarely before. It seems my other councilors are more devious than I ever supposed."  
  
"But why would they do this?" Elrond had looked at the cup blankly, but did not drink. It was impossible to concentrate on something so trivial when his world was fragmenting.   
  
"The rumours, of course." At his blank look, Gil-galad had sighed, and run a tired hand over his face. Neither of them had been at their best, having just gone to sleep a few hours before. "Oh, come, Elrond! I know I have shielded you, but certainly you must have heard something! Our liaison is by no means universally known, but the council suspects. They have proposed a number of matches for me before this, only to have me refuse them. Naturally, they would wonder why."  
  
"They cannot know." Elrond was sure of this; he and the king had been so careful, worried lest their affair damage his credibility as a Sindarin champion at court. It had been difficult, never to so much as touch hands in public, but they had known the price of indiscretion and had put secrecy above all else.   
  
"They don't need to KNOW," Gil-galad replied, drinking the tepid tea with a frown on his face. "Suspicion is enough." He sighed, regarding his tea leaves morosely. "This is partially my fault. I preferred not to lie, so I gave them no reason for my refusals, except to say that marriage does not suit me at present. I should have made something up . . . "  
  
It was, they had agreed, a mute point at the moment. The problem had been what to do about the issue. Elrond could not remember if it had been he or the king who had first arrived at the obvious conclusion, but it had been decided even before breakfast was at an end that, since he could not refuse her, she must be convinced to refuse him. Elrond smiled ruefully at the memory of the High King, one of the most handsome and elegant of elves, going out of his way in the days that followed to be as unattractive, coarse and annoying as possible. It had not worked.  
  
The gaudy colours and mismatched attire did not seem to bother the Lady Arenal, no matter how outrageous were the ensembles the king and Elrond managed to devise. His clumsiness--tripping over his own feet when entering a room or over hers when dancing, falling from his horse, even spilling a full glass of wine onto her lovely golden gown one night at dinner--was overlooked with indulgent smiles. "Either the lady is uncommonly forgiving," Gil-galad had ranted to Elrond a fortnight later, "or she wants the crown badly enough to put up with any number of antics from the clown who wears it!"  
  
Elrond had not had the heart to inform his sovereign that, despite his best efforts, Gil-galad was still impressive. His carriage was regal, to the point that even his clumsiness almost looked elegant. His sculpted features and, especially, those beautiful eyes, were enough to make even the ugliest of costumes attractive; indeed, his worst effort--a purple and orange tunic with fringe nearly a foot long--had even started a bit of a fashion craze among the younger, more adventurous elves at court, much to the king's dismay. And despite his attempts to remember to be as discourteous as possible, Gil-galad's natural good manners and casual gallantry insured that his staged errors were shrugged off as minor flaws.   
  
Elrond had lectured him unceasingly on how to appear less attractive, but they had both had to admit that it would likely take something far more than a wine stained dress or a few trodden toes to persuade Arenal to release her prize. In the end, pressured by his council on one side and the lady's relatives on the other, the king had had no choice but to agree to the betrothal being announced or risk insulting the lady. She began assembling her trousseau and planning for the elaborate ceremony, while Elrond started spending much more time in the cellars, choosing the best possible vintages for his and the king's now nightly attempts at oblivion.   
  
A flash of colour caught his eye and Elrond stooped and picked up a small shard at his feet, seeing reflected in its surface a single red flower around which a woman's hand was clenched so tightly as to mangle the fragile bloom. He had no idea what it meant. Another, larger piece nearby was positioned as if it might have come from the same mirror, yet it showed a completely different scene. It looked faintly familiar, and Elrond carefully separated it from the bed of crushed, almost dust like fragments on which it lay. Reflected on its surface was a dark sky dusted with stars, and, as he watched, shapes moved across the dim landscape. He didn't need to see them clearly to know who they were; he remembered the night quite well.  
  
Once the betrothal was made public, Elrond offered to go away from court, as Gil-galad was obviously disturbed by the thought of deliberately deceiving his future wife about their longstanding affair. Elrond had thought that his offer would ease his king's mind, allowing him to focus his attentions on his prospective bride, but he had also hoped to find relief from his own growing sorrow. Even though he knew it was only a political alliance, it became harder and harder to see Arenal about court and smile as if nothing could please him more than the upcoming nuptials. His frustration, pain and, yes, he could admit it now, anger steadily mounted as that over-painted, overdressed wench pranced about the castle, seeming to be everywhere he was, laughing with her friends, flaunting her position, planning out her perfect life. He knew now, of course, that she had probably been a perfectly nice young maid who had doubtless been given as little say in the marriage as the king, but then he had hated her. One more day having to look at those sparkling eyes and dimpled cheeks and he had really thought he might go mad and accidentally push the lady out a window.   
  
The fact that she and the king looked so well together did not help. As everyone was constantly commenting, their colouring was almost identical and their bearing equally regal. A fitting royal couple they would make, he had thought at dinner a week after the betrothal announcement, as he stared into his plate of uneaten food and wondered how long it would be before he could flee the dining hall and, hopefully, the whole realm of Lindon. Then he had received the note. It had been a little thing, on thick cream parchment with golden letters, a tiny scrap with his name inscribed on the outside in the king's flowing script. So long ago, but he could see it now, as he often had in uneasy dreams. Such a tiny thing, to cause the downfall of a realm . . .   
  
But no, Elrond would not allow himself that comfortable lie. It had not been the note, but his response to it, and his own weakness afterwards that had brought about such ruin. The message was simple, merely a request for a talk. He had supposed that Gil-galad must have noticed his silent suffering, and wished to say some words of comfort before granting his request for an extended leave. He could see his own more youthful reflection in the shard of glass before him, see himself as the king had that night, as he sat, the note clenched tightly in his hand, biting his lip and trying to look unconcerned. Elrond was surprised that he had been so very transparent--even at that age, he would have thought that he hadmore self-control--but his inner debate was clear for any to see. He had not wanted to have a conversation that could only hold more grief, and would force him to wear the mask of indifference in private as well as in public. But in the end, the thought of not making any farewell was too much to bear.   
  
The palace was not, of course, particularly safe for a private conversation. There were servants everywhere and one never knew what might not be overheard, especially lately. Every time Elrond turned around, it seemed that one of the king's councilors was there; indeed, they had given him so much extra work to do that he had barely even seen Gil-galad except at meals. He scribbled a reply on the back of the note, suggesting that they meet in the apple orchard on the far edge of the palace grounds, near the small mill that ground the fruit into juice for vinegars, perfumes, and ciders. The trees were blooming and their flowers provided a lacy canopy against the stars; it was a quiet bower where, he thought, their privacy would be assured, for who else would be walking the orchard in the middle of the night?   
  
Elrond had barely arrived when the king stepped from the shadows. They sat on a bench under the trailing blossoms as Elrond recited his carefully rehearsed speech. It had been full of heartfelt wishes for the king's happiness, and for the bond between the divided colonies of elves that he would forge. It was expressed, he had thought at the time, quite beautifully--completely without self-pity or weak pleas for some place for himself in the king's new life. The voice in which he spoke might have been a little flat, and somewhat tinted with bitterness whenever he spoke Arenal's name, but overall, Elrond had been proud of his calm, polished phrases. He had spent much of dinner thinking them up, and Gil-galad had seemed to appreciate them, sitting quietly as they fell onto the clear night air and making no attempt to interrupt.   
  
Elrond saw himself now, in that little piece of mirror, as the king had that night, and was amazed at his transparency. He had held himself too stiffly, although occasionally a small shiver broke across him, the skin of his face was too pale and dark circles showed under his eyes, their shadows elongated by the starlight. Adept now at reading others, Elrond realised how easy it must have been for the king to see through him. The pretty phrases he uttered were completely at odds with the pain in his eyes, which resolutely refused to meet those of the elf beside him. Yet, with his usual courtesy, Gil-galad had allowed him to finish. Then, without needing any of Elrond's elegantly crafted words, he destroyed the fragile grip his lover retained on his emotions with one simple query. Placing a warm hand on Elrond's thigh, he merely asked, "Do you really want to leave?"   
  
Elrond remembered feeling as if his heart would burst, so great was the strain involved in not throwing himself at the king, not crawling into his embrace and refusing ever to let go, but instead he had merely nodded. Then he had made his great mistake. All throughout his speech, he had looked out over the gardens, trying to separate himself from the words he was saying and the heart wrenching pain they caused. He had been able to do it, to lie halfway effectively, as long as he did not look at the elf at his side. He was able to refuse to think about the way he would feel at never seeing him again, or of being no more to him than any of the other courtiers who surrounded him daily but never knew his heart. But looking into those wise blue eyes had caused that pretty facade to crack, and the abject misery that had consumed him over the past month showed clearly on his face.   
  
The silence that fell between them then was heavy and dim like the shadows. The king had not attempted to pull a declaration from him, but had offered no words of comfort either. Instead, he had seemed pensive, his eyes searching the darkness as if looking for an answer to some unspoken question. Elrond had managed, after some moments, to calm himself, and had planned to make his final farewells, gather what dignity he could, and exit what had become a very uncomfortable scene as quickly as possible. But the king had not been willing to let him go so. When Elrond tried to move back from his loose embrace, Gil-galad had tightened his grip on his counselor's thigh and frowned. "I mean so little to you, then, that you are content merely to walk away?" Elrond had stared at him as if he had gone mad; "content" was hardly the word he would have used. "I suppose it is better this way, then," the king continued, finally releasing him and standing, all in one swift motion. "If your love is so cowardly, then I have to wonder if it was ever, in truth, love at all."  
  
Elrond had stared up at the towering form above him. Gil-galad. It meant star of radiance, and that was what he had always been to him; from the moment they met, he was his shining light, the joy of his life, the first person he thought of every morning and the one who occupied his dreams at night. Even in the darkened garden, he was luminescent; the stars above in the cloudless sky were a pale reflection at best. Elrond thought they should have been named after him, not the other way around. He had watched in misery as his lover prepared to casually walk out of his life, taking with him all its pleasure. That was bad enough, but for him to imply that they had never had much of a relationship in the first place, that Elrond's love had been only a feeble thing that was easily put aside--it was too much. Elrond had surged to his feet and, without thinking, pulled the king into a passionate kiss. Into it he poured all his love, his longing, and the grief he felt at the collapse of something he had believed would last forever. Let him know the price Elrond would pay for this alliance, he had thought then, let him see that cooperation between their peoples was bought with his heart's blood.   
  
The king had returned his embrace for a brief moment, then knelt, pulling Elrond to the ground with him. He had a choice then--get up and walk away, as his duty and every ethical code he had ever followed required, or stay and have one last, beautiful memory to take away with him. The brilliance of the eyes before him had made the decision; he had not even had to give it conscious thought. He could still remember the way the sweet scent of the blossoms hung in the air, and how the earth had been strangely warm beneath him as the cool night breezes caressed his face. His king's lips descended on his, rougher than usual, full of unspoken hunger, and Elrond had given himself over to what he believed would be their last time together.   
  
He had intended it to be more loving than sensual--a beautiful, lyrical farewell--but all his suppressed feelings erupted into a passionate reaction such as he had never before dared with his king. Gil-galad had always let him take the lead, but Elrond had been ever conscious of the difference in their status, of the need to please his lord even as he mastered him. For the first time, he felt none of that; some part of him decided, without bothering to consult his higher emotions, that if this was truly their last time, then let there be no restraint. He quickly pushed the king onto his back, hands finding his wrists and pressing them into the soft earth below them, sliding along his whole length as he took control of the kiss, deepened it, and made sure that he showed the king just how much he had been holding back until now. He undulated against him, and the friction of the silk and velvet of their robes was more sensual than even bare skin would have been. The air in his lungs was fire, making speech impossible, but why would he need to talk now? In his king's eyes was love and wonder and all he needed to know, while Elrond let his body say for him all the things his lips could not.  
  
Elrond smiled now, watching the images from that long ago tryst with tears in his eyes. He wondered how he had ever allowed himself to believe that he controlled their relationship when it was obvious that his lover had led him so easily. His younger self had clung to the king as a drowning victim does a life line, licking his neck, biting his earlobes, nuzzling his throat, all the while writhing under the touch that played his responses like a master musician does his favourite instrument. When Elrond fumbled with his robes, those experienced hands helped him remove them; when his desperation caused him to become clumsy, the king slowed him down in the most pleasurable way possible, bestowing soft kisses on his forehead, eyelids, cheeks, and throat before moving lower. As the king's lips moved down the smooth expanse of his chest, resting briefly on the ripples of his abdominal muscles, then at the dimple of his navel, Elrond shuddered and tried to hold on to his composure, but he had quickly lost the battle. Pulling his lover into a tight embrace, he buried his face in Gil-galad's neck, feeling the steady thrum of his lover's pulse against his cheek, and tried to make himself believe that this would never end.  
  
It was strange, Elrond thought now, watching their love making through the king's eyes, how much he had never noticed about himself. The way his pupils expanded in his need, the soft, yearning moans he made as his tongue tasted the warm flesh of his lover's throat, the long, slow shudder that racked him when the king stroked him, those strong fingers wrapping so knowingly about his flesh. Elrond could almost feel it all again, his pulse beating harder under that hand, his entire world narrowing to the sound of his breathing and the dizzying intoxication of his familiar scent. The king had smiled as he noticed the hot hardness pressing against his thigh and the way his lover was thrusting slightly against him. Elrond remembered with perfect clarity the blazing heat that had built within him, driving him towards release, and how badly he had wanted to be inside his king when he came. Without a word being said, with no other communication needed between them, Gil-galad had slightly spread his legs and Elrond moved between them.   
  
He remembered now that it had all seemed a little too intense, almost frightening, as if he was trying to push all the futures that would never be into one, perfect moment. It was better than he might have expected under the circumstances, despite the sense of urgency that made him clumsy and a bit frantic, to the point that he finished far earlier than he'd intended. The king had not seemed to mind, but held him close afterwards, his fingers smoothing his lover's messy hair as he gently kissed him. Elrond had known in that instant that he would never give him up--not for any price, not even for a peace that might last for all the ages to come. It had been weak and selfish and supremely foolish, but he knew in his heart that, given the chance to go back, he would make the same choice all over again.  
  
"Am I to take it that you do not wish to leave me after all?," Gil-galad had asked, and Elrond would have felt proud of how breathless the king's voice was, except that he was too overwhelmed himself to comment.   
  
As it was, he never had an opportunity, for Arenal suddenly stepped into the glade, the dim starlight insufficient to allow her features to be clearly seen, but the venom in her tone was more than enough to lend force to her words. "Since you are so happy with one another, don't let me interfere," and she pulled the ring from her finger and threw it on the ground. Elrond twisted Vilya on his hand now, remembering how it had been bestowed on him much later for a different purpose; he had no idea what had happened to that other ring--it had not been needed, for his relationship with the king transcended such things. Arenal had turned and left, not hurrying, and Elrond had to admit that she had been queenly in her bearing even then. He had not noticed the flower she held and must have mangled as she watched them, but apparently Gil-galad had been more observant. Staring at the images on the memory shard, Elrond realised that the king had known she was there all along.  
  
It was easy to see now that Elrond thought about it, although at the time it had not been so clear. Betrothals are not lightly made between the Eldar and are difficult to break. Once his counselors proposed the marriage, it would have been difficult for the king to refuse it without giving a valid reason. Arenal was of faultless bloodline and unimpeachable breeding, how then could she be said to be an unacceptable queen? Unable to refuse the match without dragging Elrond into what was certain to be a very ugly situation, the king had managed the matter in his usual understated way, by allowing the lady the chance to see for herself that this would be no love match, and why. If she still wanted the name and title, perhaps the marriage could be completed after all, with the understanding that Elrond would remain at his side. If not, then she had the chance to break it off, and he had apparently understood her enough to know that she would be too proud to give the real reason. To be replaced by anyone would be embarrassing, but by a male, and not even a full elf at that?   
  
Arenal had indeed said nothing of it, merely commenting that she found the king not to her liking. That there was more to it than that had been obvious to all, however, and the old rumours about Gil-galad and his young advisor had surfaced once again. Never thereafter had his counselors suggested another match, but it also soon became apparent that the aborted marriage had weakened the ties between the two great elvish hosts. Thinking on it now from the comfortable distance of centuries, Elrond supposed it should have been obvious that such would be the case. But then, they had been so hopeful that all could be smoothed over, that the sundering of two individuals who had, after all, never truly been joined, did not have to mean the parting of their peoples as well. Yet the Sindar had, under various leaders, started to drift away shortly thereafter, many under the command of Arenal's cousin Oropher, and no argument had been enough to prevent it.   
  
Elrond felt himself weakening with the huge effort required to maintain the link between him and the king. He looked about the wreckage of what had once been a great mind, and sighed in hopelessness. How could this amount of damage ever be repaired? And yet, somehow he must manage it. At present the king was little better than a newborn. His concentration wandered aimlessly, making the smallest mental task a great hurdle. Elrond could not bear seeing one who had once planned entire campaigns, down to the merest detail, with consummate ease, who had been able to recite whole scrolls of ancient knowledge from memory alone, who rarely bothered to look up a fact because his mind was far better than any library, now nothing but a ruined shell. They had weathered much in their long attachment; this, too, somehow they would conquer. He had meant what he had said in his heart that night--he would never let him go.  
  
  
TBC 


	24. Chapter Twentyfour

Title: Wild Justice 24/?   
Author: Rune Dancer  
Rating: R   
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline.   
Warnings: BDSM.   
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused. For anyone who is following this story arc, please understand that my life has been very stressful lately and I am going to be unable to update as frequently in future as has been usual for me. I will try to post at least one chapter per week, probably on the weekends, until this story is complete. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy it.   
  
* * *  
  
Haldir lay against the soft pillows of his bed, in a room filled with light and the fresh scent of flowers from a vine the wind kept blowing in the open window. Despite the fact that he had just spent a passionate night with his lover, had an excellent breakfast, and been informed by Lord Elrond thereafter that he would likely be up and walking within a week, a deep frown was etched onto his features. There was no reason for his bad mood, except for the alarming possibility that had occurred to him only a few moments before.   
  
Lord Elrond had requested at the end of his examination that Gildor leave Haldir alone for a few hours so that he might get some sleep. Gildor had acquiesced, walking out of the room at Lord Elrond's side after unselfconsciously kissing his lover goodbye. Haldir had fully intended to get the recommended rest, for he was tired and the bitter liquid Lord Elrond gave him had induced drowsiness almost immediately. However, he did not sleep. Instead, he was halfway to the door of his room before he even realised it, and only woke out of his trance when his weak ankle suddenly gave out under him. He managed to get back to bed without further incident, but had been sitting there, staring at the door with a frown on his face, ever since.  
  
He had never had anything like that happen before. It was almost as if Gildor had pulled him along via some unseen cord, drawing him with no apparent effort, rather as if he was a dog on a leash! Haldir had seen enough hapless victims to know what this very unsettling experience meant, and he was appalled. Being fond of Gildor was one thing--even, he admitted it, being excessively fond--but this! No one controlled Haldir of Lorien. He remained in charge of all his relationships, unless he chose to submit for a brief period as he had with Lord Elrond. But even then, he always knew what he was doing and was in full possession of his faculties. For someone who had laughed at moonstruck, starry-eyed elves, who followed the object of their affection around with no concern whatsoever for their dignity, the fact that he had just acted no better was enough to make him seriously re-evaluate his relationship.   
  
Something Rumil had laughingly said a few days before came back to him, and Haldir wondered if perhaps he had misunderstood his brother's meaning. Pulling the bell cord beside his bed, he determined to find out if he had unknowingly become the laughing stock of Lorien. Rumil arrived a few minutes later, and Haldir gave him no chance to avoid the issue. "Who do you think controls my relationship with Gildor?"  
  
"What?" Rumil looked at him quizzically, balancing a silver tray in his hands. On it was a carafe of water, a glass and a bunch of elanor, their dark green stems wrapped in a yellow bow.   
  
"You heard me. I want an answer, brother."  
  
Rumil put the tray on the table beside Haldir's bed and placed a hand on his brow. "Are you feverish?"  
  
Haldir caught his arm and glared at him. "I want to know. Who is it--Gildor or myself?" Rumil's shifty expression was enough of an answer for Haldir, who dropped his brother's wrist and collapsed back against the pillows, stricken. "By Elbereth! This cannot continue!"  
  
Rumil sighed and looked at him with exasperation. "You have a lover who adores you and who you obviously adore. Many would feel themselves extremely fortunate to be in your position. Why are you so concerned about such a small thing?"  
  
"It is not a small thing! I will be owned by no one!"  
  
"He doesn't own you. And, anyway, love means giving up a certain amount of control to another, there is no way around it." Rumil put the elanor in a vase, tossing out the other flowers, which had wilted. "Gildor asked me to bring you these. He knows you like them."  
  
"I never gave up any control in my past relationships! I stayed or left as I liked, and acted any way I chose. This will be no different!"  
  
Rumil looked at him archly. "Your other relationships had the staying power of a few weeks at best. Gildor plans to be around for a good deal longer than that, it seems to me."  
  
"And I suppose I have no say in the matter?"  
  
Rumil shrugged. "I grow bored with this topic, brother. Shouldn't you be saying these things to him? Although I would wait until I'd calmed a bit, if I were you." Rumil tucked the sheet around his brother's neck and smiled down at the sleepy form below him. "Rest, and things may seem brighter when you awake."  
  
"I will talk to him tonight," Haldir declared.   
  
He heard the smile in Rumil's voice even as he drifted off to sleep. "That should be an interesting conversation."  
  
* * *  
  
"We are ready to depart, my lord." Erestor glanced up at the elf addressing Thranduil. He had once been a member of Elrond's special guard, known then as Tuor of Imladris. As a result of Glorfindel's unorthodox gift to the king five hundred years ago, he was now Tuor of Mirkwood.   
  
Thranduil, to Erestor's surprise, looked amused rather than annoyed. He also managed to seem his usual collected self, despite being shoved up against a tree by an enraged Peredhil only a few moments earlier. Erestor supposed that, sooner or later, he would learn to stop underestimating the king. "Ah, Tuor. No, I think we shall be . . . delaying . . . our approach to the mines somewhat."  
  
Tuor nodded, but instead of going back to inform the others, he lingered. Something in his expression seemed a bit off to Erestor, who watched him without seeming to as Lord Celeborn laughingly asked Thranduil why he did not simply go fetch their missing members.   
  
Thranduil lifted a blond brow and turned his clear green gaze on the Lord of Lorien. "Walk into a wood and disrupt the, er, activities, of the only two living balrog slayers?" He smiled, showing large white teeth. "I think not. Perhaps we will just wait until they choose to rejoin us!"  
  
Erestor was not surprised to see Tuor look confused, as to him the remark must have seemed strange at the least. Yet another expression swiftly followed the confusion, one that caught Erestor's interest. "Excuse me, my lord, but how long shall I tell the troops we are to be delayed?" The elf's words were reasonable enough, and spoken in an appropriately light tone of voice, but his eyes showed more concern than they should have over something so trivial. For a brief moment, he looked almost fearful.  
  
Thranduil stretched and seemed unconcerned; apparently he had noticed nothing amiss. "I don't have any idea. Tell your troops to use the reprieve to further their rest or to practice their techniques; but see that a proper guard remains in place. I don't want anyone sneaking up on us."  
  
Tuor saluted smartly and left. Erestor gave him a few seconds head start, then melted into the forest after him.  
  
* * *  
  
Glorfindel watched Elrohir carefully, not sure exactly how much his lover had remembered. His expression when threatening Thranduil had been reminiscent of his battlefield mien, and his evident ability to take charge of their current activities was certainly different from his usual docile acceptance of Glorfindel's lead. However, he had said nothing to indicate much one way or the other, and Glorfindel was wary of causing him harm by bringing the subject up. He was also finding it difficult to analyse the situation with Elrohir pressing him down onto the forest floor and stripping off his clothing.  
  
"I have waited patiently for you, lirimaer, but no more. I was tolerant while you played with the king, flirted with him for no reason, and tortured me. But my forbearance is not endless and now you WILL pay." Elrohir tugged the last of Glorfindel's clothes away and tossed them across the clearing. "You are mine, have always been mine, and always shall be," he added fiercely, straddling Glorfindel's thighs and trapping him against the warmth of his body.   
  
The whole scene reminded Glorfindel vividly of the incident on the beach the first time they met. He thought that might have been the moment he fell in love with the maddening Sindar, even though he had certainly not been ready to admit it then, not even to himself. However, he had not been able to get the image out of his mind all day long, and he had galloped back to the palace with his head spinning. Who was the outrageous creature who would dare assault him, Glorfindel of the Golden Flower, recently made head of one of the greatest Noldorin families after his father returned to the West? He might be young, but he was certainly no one to be treated with such easy contempt!  
  
But no, he had to admit, in truth there had been no contempt in the stranger's gaze, although many other emotions--surprise, admiration, lust and something else he could not name--had been evident. Glorfindel had felt strangely as if he should know this one, even though they had certainly never before met. He would have remembered those mocking grey eyes, delighted laugh and easy manner no matter where he encountered them. The stranger had made him angry and confused, as well as ashamed of how easily his body responded. But by all the gods, who could have looked on him, so perfect and so unconsciously seductive, and not felt drawn to him?   
  
Glorfindel had told himself that he was undoubtedly just concerned over the upcoming battle, and had let his emotions get out of control. Certainly the elf was attractive--unnervingly so in fact--but that was no excuse for losing his dignity along with most of his clothing to him in the space of a few minutes! He was nonetheless unable to keep himself from asking a number of people about the strange elf, who roamed about the countryside as if he owned it, and somehow managed to seem more intimidating while practically nude with bits of grass in his hair, than Glorfindel had felt properly attired and seated atop his horse. No one seemed to know who he might be, however, nor were they very interested in the question. Glorfindel was laughingly assured that all the Sindar were half barbarians anyway--although most did wear clothes!   
  
He had been unable to stop thinking about him, however, and the image of those knowing dark eyes had remained in his mind while he readied himself for the evening's ceremony. He had been very puzzled, for that one brief encounter threatened to overturn all that he thought he knew about the Sindar. Glorfindel had always accepted the common attitude among the Noldor that any elves who had not seen the light of the Two Trees must be inferior, less enlightened and not quite civilized. Surely they were less wise and more given to outbursts of emotion, less in touch with the will of the Valar and more childlike in their attitudes. He had met few Sindar, as, although they had accepted Turgon as their king in Nevrast, it was primarily because a mediator was needed in the constant family bickering that went on among the leading houses. The two communities had afterwards shared a sovereign, but stayed largely separate. Only a few Sindar nobles were regularly seen at court, and they had tended to bear out the Noldorin attitudes--they were haughty, easily offended, and seemed more sly and cunning than wise. Glorfindel had been content to have little to do with them, keeping solely to his Noldorin friends.   
  
But now there was this annoying, stunning, completely unsettling Sindar who did not seem to understand the situation. He should have been honoured to be addressed by a noble and a Noldoran one at that! He should have apologised profusely for upsetting his horse and disturbing his ride. Instead, he had acted as if Glorfindel should be honoured to meet HIM, and then stole his sash and his horse in an amazing show of effrontery and no small skill. No one else could ride Fain, had never been able to do so. He allowed one rider on his back only, which was how Glorfindel had acquired him several years before. He was a magnificent animal, but useless to his previous owner, who could not stay on his back for more than a few seconds. So it had been with utter shock that Glorfindel saw the barbarian leap onto Fain and ride off, having apparently no trouble at all controlling him.  
  
He had further confused Glorfindel by proving that he could as easily master him as his horse, then had totally flummoxed him by letting him go, even though it had been obvious that he desired him. The elf seemingly took no offense at being called a barbarian, but he had not acted the part. Glorfindel could not understand why he behaved in such a contradictory manner, and was secretly almost disappointed when the Sindar let his noble impulses win out. He could not decide whether to be grateful to him for releasing him--for the experience had become truly frightening when Glorfindel realised that he simply could not move unless the other elf permitted it--or angry for arousing him with so little effort. He had still been puzzling over that when he went to collect Lord Ecthelion.  
  
Glorfindel smiled in memory of how the glorious figure on the balcony had made him catch his breath in wonder. He had taken several seconds to realise that the face--the smug, smiling face--of the vision before him was the same as that of the infuriating elf from the hideously embarrassing experience earlier in the day. Glorfindel had momentarily thought about simply turning and walking away, but then the elf's servant had closed the door behind him and he had recalled that he had a duty to face, no matter how unpleasant of one.  
  
Only it hadn't proven unpleasant. The gorgeous elf he had to escort proved to have equally pretty manners when he chose to exhibit them, and the way he was greeted by the droves of Sindarin elves who had arrived for the ceremony showed that he had quite a reputation; Glorfindel assumed it was for something other than seducing strangers. He had again felt almost disappointed when the elf--no, he supposed he must remember to refer to him as Lord Ecthelion--was dragged away by his friends and well wishers for a celebration almost as soon as the ceremony was completed. Glorfindel had dodged his own friends, wanting to be alone with his thoughts, and had soon sought out his favourite spot high on the hill overlooking the palace.   
  
It had been a beautiful night, but the starlight was not soothing to his tattered nerves. The longer he sat there, the more concerned he became. Being leader of his house meant more than acting a part at ceremonies. It was also an administrative and, in times of war, a military position. He would not only be expected to fight well in the upcoming battle, but would also have to direct his elves, something he had never before done. There would, of course, be experienced commanders there, but he had the definite impression that, in the midst of battle, plans might well have to be changed at a moment's notice, and one mistake could cost many lives. He had been lost in his reverie when Ecthelion found him, and it had amazed him how nonchalant the older elf seemed about the battle. Indeed, the fact that his armor was uncomfortable had seemed to upset him more than the thought of facing the hordes of Morgoth! Glorfindel had envied him his easy calm, and had found, for the first time that night, a measure of peace in his company. Following him back to his rooms had almost seemed inevitable.   
  
Now, as Elrohir began to claim him as he'd promised, Glorfindel could not help but make comparisons with that other joining. Ecthelion had been an ardent yet gentle lover, at least until their shared passion overcame them and they both lost control. Glorfindel had later wondered why that first encounter had been so intense, and had finally settled on the idea that desperation had played a part, namely the knowledge that his first time might also be his last. But of course it had not been--the battle had gone well, with Ecthelion lending him much needed support yet managing to be subtle about it, and they had ended up fighting side by side before the end. Their one night together had turned into two, for of course the victory had to be celebrated, and then three, to commemorate returning safely to Nevrast, and then four just because they both wanted it . . . in the end, the thrill of being together had never stopped.   
  
Now Glorfindel wondered if he had known all along that there was something special between them, even that first time. There had been others in the long years alone, and many had been passionate and skilled, but it had never felt like this with anyone else.  
He was so caught up in the joy of finally having his love back in his arms, that he did not notice they were under attack until the battle horns sounded their cry across the forest.  
  
* * *  
  
Thranduil never knew what happened to the sentries. They should have given warning, but the first he knew of the attack was the landing of an orcish arrow a hair's breadth from his head. Before it had fully penetrated the oak's wood, he had his first arrow nocked and a second later had taken down his attacker. He soon emptied his quiver as a flood of the foul creatures burst across the clearing, but did not look for another as they were already upon him. Hand to hand fighting with his knives was something Thranduil had not done, other than in practice sessions, in hundreds of years, but that sort of skill was never really lost. The old familiar sensation of battle excitement filled his veins, and dropping into a suitable trance was as easy as breathing.   
  
He noticed Celeborn run up the almost perpendicular side of a tree as easily as if it had been lying flat, and grinned. His Sindar blood was showing; Thranduil made a mental note to tease him about it later, for none of the Noldor with whom the Lord of Lorien was so closely allied could have copied that particular maneuver. No, Thranduil smiled as he grabbed hold of a large limb and then let it bounce back, slamming two orcs to the ground as it did so, and making them easy prey for his flashing knives, the Noldor simply did not have the same attachment to Arda that the Sindar possessed. Galadriel would have had a hard time with the elves of the Golden Wood, whose Silvan attachment to the trees in which they lived was foreign and incomprehensible to her. Luckily, she had shown the good taste to wed a Sindarin lord rather than another Noldor, and had bought by it acceptance she would not have received otherwise.  
  
Celeborn had emptied his quiver and, from his high perch, was unable to easily obtain another, so Thranduil paused for long enough to toss him one from their now abandoned packs. He received a jaunty wave in thanks, before the deadly rain of arrows from above resumed. Thranduil continued to enjoy himself, cleaving orcs left and right, but he also kept an eye on the battlefield as he did so--at least what was visible through the thick growth of trees. This was not, he quickly realised, an ideal position from which to fight a prolonged battle. The trees were too thick to allow him to properly see the number or disposition of the enemy, and to thereby form a decent strategy. The number of their attackers also worried him. Orcs habitually raided in small parties, usually of no more than a hundred and often less than that. He knew, of course, that a much larger party had assaulted the Lorien contingent a few days before, but that was before his group of archers had joined them. Even orcs had scouts; and no orcish patrol had ever attacked a group of over six hundred elvish warriors--it would be suicide. The creatures preferred to vastly outnumber their prey, especially when going against elves. They were raiders and thieves, bandits and bullies, who fled any chance of a fair fight. The only exception to that had been when those orcs were under the leadership of a power they feared far more than the elves, such as at Barad-dur.  
  
That was not a thought that brought Thranduil any comfort. He glanced upwards as his knives caught an orc head between them and sliced it off, the blades meeting in the middle of the creature's neck to ring dully against each other. Celeborn had acquired a helper in the form of one of the Galadrim, and there were now several quivers of extra arrows lodged nearby in the fork of the limb on which they stood. Yet Celeborn did not look pleased. Thranduil had never seen that particular expression on his usually impassive features. Little managed to rattle the Lorien lord, but he was certainly looking stunned by something now. Deciding to judge for himself, Thranduil grasped hold of the lowest tree limb, then pushed off from the ground, stepping on an orc's shoulders for added purchase as he did so.   
  
A few seconds later and he stood beside Celeborn, who continued to nock and fire arrows almost automatically despite the savage expression on his face. Thranduil never had the chance to ask him what the problem was, for he glanced out over the battlefield only to see for himself. The hills that showed above the treetops were black with orcs, a countless, surging mass unlike any he had seen since the Last Alliance. It was virtually impossible to even discern any green on the hillsides for the writhing, jostling hoard that covered it. Elves battled well everywhere he looked, but none could stand against such numbers for long. He had not really believed there were that many orcs in all of Middle Earth! All the way back to the mountains they spread, a dirty black cloud that covered the good and pure with their stench. This was about more than a few elves, of that there was no longer a question. There was no argument to be made over something else either.  
  
Grabbing the horn from the Galadrim's waist, Thranduil lifted it to his lips. Celeborn's eyes narrowed in distaste, but he said nothing. He, too, had fought often enough in the past to recognise inevitability now. Instead of the battle call that had played earlier, Thranduil prepared to form notes he had not heard since Sauron's forces swept over his father's in the marshes, leaving most of the Sindarin host dead on the ground. The call had not been heard by elvin ears for hundreds of years, but he knew all would know what it meant. Forcing back his distaste, Thranduil signaled the call for retreat.  
  
TBC 


	25. Chapter TwentyFive

Title: Wild Justice 25/?   
Author: Rune Dancer  
Rating: R   
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline.   
Warnings: BDSM.   
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused.   
  
* * *  
  
Elwyyda nudged open the door to Lord Elrond's room with her foot, and edged inside. The heavy tray she carried was loaded down with food and wine, and she intended to see that every bit of it was consumed before she left. It was just as well that her other patients seemed to be improving, for their healer was himself in need of aid, but everyone else was too much in awe of him to do anything about it.   
  
Elwyyda had noticed, when she made her now daily visits to Zirak, that Lord Elrond was ALWAYS there. It didn't matter when she dropped by--early morning to middle of the night--the healer was either sitting beside Zirak's bed holding his hand, or else taking him to the baths, or feeding him, or reading to him from one of the huge historical tomes Lord Elrond seemed to prefer. It greatly annoyed Elwyyda.  
  
At first, she had simply been upset because she could never manage to see her friend alone. As the days passed, however, she became steadily more concerned over the deteriorating state of Lord Elrond's health. She might not be a healer, but even she knew you had to eat sometime, and rest occasionally, if you were to remain functional. Elrond had started to take on a slightly feverish air similar to those who had been long in the mines, deprived of good food and fresh air. Elwyyda had started leaving his window open, to try to aid with the latter at least, and when he asked why, she simply replied that Zirak preferred it that way. That had been that, and her supposed knowledge of Zirak's wants had enabled her thereafter to persuade Lord Elrond to modify his behaviour somewhat. However, it did not escape her notice that, although Zirak was beginning to look better--his eyes were brighter and some colour was blooming in his cheeks for the first time since she'd known him, Lord Elrond was steadily weakening.  
  
Elwyyda sat the tray on the bedside table and observed the two figures curled up together on the great bed. At first she was pleased, for both seemed asleep, and since it was mid-morning that was a sign that perhaps they'd had a decent night's rest for once. But she became concerned when neither stirred, even though she had made no effort to be quiet when setting down the tray. She coughed, to let them know that breakfast had arrived, but still there was no response. She briefly thought about going to get help, as their stillness was becoming worrying, but the haughty servants who ran this household had done nothing to earn her trust. Deciding to be a little more forward, she reached out a hand to tug at Lord Elrond's sleeve, and an instant later the room fell away.  
  
* * *  
  
The minute the orcs came pouring through the forest, Glorfindel knew what he was seeing. Not just an attack--THE attack, the one Vairë had shown him all those centuries before. He had not been able to tell Thranduil and Celeborn about it, as he did not know when it was destined to occur and he would not risk altering the future in any way. Things had to go as they were meant to do--at least up to a point--or he had no chance of changing the one point that mattered. It pained him greatly to think that the scene shown in Vairë's tapestry had to take place just as he and Elrohir were once again back together; he had hoped for a few years at least . . .   
  
Glorfindel had not spared much time to worry about his lover when Gondolin fell. He had been frantic to find the princess and get her safely away, and with the chaos, noise and frenzied crowds, he had had little time even to think about Ecthelion until he saw him fall. Until then, Glorfindel had honestly believed that nothing could hurt his lover. Ecthelion had always been larger than life and supremely confident--and experience in battle had shown that he had every reason to be. But that day had proven that even the greatest of warriors can die, if the odds are sufficiently against them. Glorfindel had seen his lover do so not once, but twice: on the day they lost Gondolin and in the scene from Vairë's tapestry. But Lord Ulmo himself had said it--the past is just the future decided. He had not understood that at the time, but in the centuries since he had given it much thought. What he hoped Ulmo meant was that everything remains in flux until it actually occurs. He had seen Elrond die in a future that, thanks to Ulmo's interference and his own refusal to leave Elrond's side at Barad-dur, had not happened. Likewise, he was determined that the future Vairë had shown him would be proven a lie.  
  
As a tide of orcs burst into the glade, Glorfindel made sure to stay alongside Elrohir. It was almost like the old days--fighting back to back as they once had done against Morgoth. But the orcs were not Glorfindel's primary concern. He fought them off with only part of his mind, while keeping a sharp eye out for the sneak attack he knew was coming. A large orc appeared to his right, just as Glorfindel was holding off two others with his knives. Elrohir swung about to face the new attacker, forcing Glorfindel to have to move several paces to the left. He ran an orc through with one of his knives, and was so busy trying to slip his other weapon past the second creature's guard that he almost failed to see prophecy come true, even with his forewarning.   
  
A flash of green came from the right, heading straight for Elrohir. Glorfindel knew what it was without having to see it distinctly--he had been expecting it. The last time he had seen the great spear, large enough around to skewer a wild pig or, in this case, an elf, it had been sticking out of his lover's back in Vairë's weaving. Glorfindel had only a split second to intercept it, so he pushed the orc he was battling into the path of the weapon. The spear was traveling with such velocity that it passed completely through the creature, who looked down at his punctured abdomen with an air of surprise, and then continued on to tear through Glorfindel's side.   
  
He and the orc tumbled to the ground together, momentarily attached by the spear, but Glorfindel quickly pushed it back out of his body and finished the goblin with a cut across its throat. He judged his own wound to be severe, but not under most circumstances life threatening. A glade filled with orcs is not, however, most circumstances, and he knew he was in trouble. He did not know who the hidden assassin was, or if he had any more great spears with him, he only knew that he had to protect Elrohir at all cost. Just then, a sound he had never thought to hear echoed across the forest, and, insanely, the battle in the glade stopped momentarily as all paused to listen. Elrohir looked as stunned as Glorfindel knew he himself must--the sound was an elvin horn calling for full retreat.  
  
"What is it? What is happening?" Elrohir looked confused, as if he could not quite believe what his ears were hearing. Then he saw Glorfindel's tunic, rapidly changing colour from bright green to deep red. "You're injured!"  
  
The orcs seemed to realise this at the same moment, and the fight resumed in earnest. Glorfindel could feel himself weakening, and although he was taking out a large number of their attackers, he would not be able to continue this pace for long. Yet the orcs just kept coming, even though he had the impression that the ones they were dealing with were just a small part of the whole, for they had gone a good way from camp earlier. If the main elvish host was the point of the attack, how many must they be facing? No wonder a retreat had been called! Still, the battle was up to Lord Celeborn and the king to direct, and he had no doubts of their ability; his sole concern was Elrohir's safety.   
  
Elrohir had always had the Sindarin attachment to the natural world, and Glorfindel hoped if he could get him into the trees, he could make his escape over the roof of the forest. He managed to slowly move them across the glade to the roots of a large tree, which had limbs that spread out, touching those of many others around it. "Climb up, quickly!"  
  
Elrohir nodded and scrambled up the straight trunk almost as easily as if he had had one of the Galadrim's ladders to help him. "Give me your hand!," he shouted down, after reaching the first juncture. But Glorfindel knew he did not have the strength left to attempt any tree climbing, not and hold off the orc attack at the same time.   
  
"Go ahead; I'll follow you!" Elrohir used his vantage point to begin shooting arrows at the orcs remaining in the glade, but did not budge from that spot. He did not have to say anything; Glorfindel should have known--he simply would not leave without him. "Elrohir, you have to get away!"  
  
Glorfindel never received an answer, because all fighting suddenly stopped once more. Through the trees came a sight Glorfindel had never thought to see--en elf walking casually alongside two huge goblins, almost as if they were friends. He recognised the elf in question immediately. "Tuor, what . . . "  
  
"You didn't really think I would let them deprive me of the pleasure of finishing you off, did you?" The handsome blond, so close in appearance to Glorfindel himself, looked mildly inquisitive, rather as if he had simply asked what he would like for lunch. His blue eyes were almost gentle as he surveyed him, and his smile held none of the haughtiness Glorfindel remembered. "It is a shame it had to come to this. I always admired you, you know. Even after you humiliated me in Mirkwood, I felt no real rancor. After all, you gave me a great gift, did you not? Too bad you have recently decided you wanted it back."  
  
"I have no idea what you mean." In truth, Glorfindel had a pretty good idea, but keeping the elf's concentration on him would allow Elrohir time to get away, if only he would use it!  
  
"Oh, no? I suppose, then, that you did not notice the fool my lover has been making of himself lately? Yet it was a rare sight--a king following around a mere seneschal, so enamored that he would do anything for him. It completely escaped your notice?" For the first time, a trace of venom found its way into Tuor's tone. "It did not escape mine! You left me with him when it suited you, but he never really forgot you. I tried everything to make him do so, and for a while I thought I had succeeded. Then one day, after we had had centuries together, he suddenly decides to go to Lorien without me. It was not long before I began to receive reports from friends in his entourage of exactly why."  
  
Tuor looked Glorfindel over, from head to toe, a slight sneer appearing on his face. "I see no reason why he should prefer you over me! We are almost close enough in looks to be twins. I may not have your reputation, but I, too, am a warrior! And a strategist, as I have proven this day. Oh, don't worry," he commented with a smile, seeing Glorfindel's expression. "The rest of the elves will be allowed to retreat. Just as soon as you and your companion are dead."   
  
* * *  
  
Elwydda woke to find herself in an almost pitch black room. The only light came from shards of glass that someone had carelessly left lying about the floor. How they could reflect light when no lamps were visible was strange, but enough illumination was provided to enable her to see that no one else was there. Elwyyda called out, but the room absorbed her voice, making it sound muffled even to her own ears. No one answered her call; not even an echo came back to her.  
  
She cautiously went forward, determined to find a way out of this strange place, when a sudden flash of colour surprised her. She walked over to a large mirror that reflected back not the darkness and her own face, but a comfortable room lit by firelight and filled with books. The mirror's surface shimmered and rippled then, and she put out a tentative hand to it, only to find herself able to pass through as easily as if no barrier existed at all. Her arm was lit by the rosy firelight of that other room and she felt no pain. She withdrew it and examined her limb carefully, but no harm appeared to have been done to it. Gathering up her courage, she decided to continue with her search. Although the room seemed empty, there were parts of it not visible from where she stood. Very cautiously, then, she stepped through the shifting barrier.  
  
As soon as she had done so, it closed behind her, and Elwyyda almost panicked when she could no longer see it. Her hand dimmed, however, when it passed through the area where the barrier had been, and she sighed in relief. It was still there, then, just not easily visible from this side.  
  
From far off, she could hear a strange sound, a metallic clang like swords ringing together. She carefully stayed in the shadows, using the skills she had learned in the mines, and moved slowly down a long corridor towards it. Peering around a corner, she saw a strange sight. Two elves, one of whom was Lord Elrond, were fighting together, and something in their demeanor told Elwyyda that this was no practise session. Elrond's opponent was tall, with long dark hair that almost reached his waist. Elwyyda thought he looked somewhat familiar, but could not place him until she saw his eyes. She almost cried out then, but a hand clasped over her mouth from behind and she was jerked back around the corner. For a moment, she thought she was seeing double. The same dark haired elf who was battling Lord Elrond now stood before her, but there was a very different expression in his bright blue eyes. This one looked as she remembered him, not half crazed like that other . . . whoever he was.  
  
"Zirak!," she hugged him quickly, then stood back, admiring his beauty. She truly would not have known him except for the eyes.   
  
"Elwyyda--what are you doing here? No, never mind; it doesn't matter. You must come with me!" He took her hand and quickly towed her back down the hall in the direction from which she had just come.  
  
"Zirak, what . . . "  
  
They reentered the library and Zirak pointed out the faint outlines of the portal. "Can you see it?" At her nod he smiled, and hugged her close for an instant. "Good. Now think carefully. A connection was made between you and Elrond, do you know how?"  
  
"I . . . I just touched him, to wake him up for breakfast, and then . . ."  
  
"That's good, that's fine." Zirak smiled at her reassuringly, and brushed one of her braids out of her eyes. "What I need for you to do is to go back through the portal to that other room, then concentrate very hard on Elrond's bedroom. See it clearly in your mind, and when you open your eyes, you will be there. Don't panic if it doesn't happen at once--just keep trying and you'll succeed. Can you do that?"  
  
"Yes, but . . . "  
  
"And once you have," Zirak continued, a sense of urgency in his voice, "it is very important that you go find help immediately. I need an elf, Elwyyda--a warrior. One loyal to Lord Elrond who will do whatever has to be done for his safety regardless of what it is. Preferably someone fairly young, who does not remember Lindon. Do you know any such elves?"  
  
Elwyyda nodded. Of course she did. "Gildor."  
  
"Good, then you must go get this Gildor. Bring him to me Elwyyda; have him touch Elrond as you did, and show him how to get here. And you must hurry! Elrond is weakening, and I am of little use to him." Elwyyda saw tears come into Zirak's blue eyes. "Please, Elwyyda, please don't fail me. He is the most important thing in my life--the best thing. He always was. I MUST save him, do you understand?"  
  
Elwyyda nodded. If Zirak wanted to see Gildor so badly, she would make certain Gildor was brought to him. She didn't understand all this, but perhaps they would explain it to her later. Zirak helped her up to the portal, which hovered a few feet off the ground, and she was once more enveloped in darkness.   
  
* * *   
  
Glorfindel's mind was working quickly, and he had by now realised that the depiction he had seen of his lover's death on the wall covering in Mandos had been an accident; the spear had been thrown at him, not at Elrohir, who must have stepped in front of it in that other time. Glorfindel had, then, already changed the course of events once; all he had to do now was insure that the future he had seen did not come true in another fashion. "Let Elrohir go; he has no part to play in this. It is between the two of us."   
  
Tuor shrugged. "He had no part, until you dragged him into it. He has seen me now, and I cannot very well leave him alive to tell the king any of this, can I? With you two out of the way, Thranduil is mine. In time, he will learn to appreciate all I do for him, to love me as he always should have done--as he would have, if his mind had not been fixed on you!" He gestured up at Elrohir's tree. "Kill him," he told the orcs briefly, "but leave the other to me."  
  
Two orcish archers took aim at Elrohir, but before Glorfindel could make a movement in their direction, arrows sped out of the encircling woods, burying themselves in the creature's backs. An instant later and the glade was filled with elvish soldiers, Noldor by the look of them, and a dark figure emerged behind them, fussily brushing pine needles from the sleeve of his wine coloured tunic. He looked annoyed and petulant, his lips set in a definite pout, but Glorfindel had never been so happy to see anyone in his life.   
  
Erestor walked casually through the glade as his Noldorin soldiers slaughtered the remaining orcs with brutal efficiency. Side stepping a severed head that rolled into his path, he finally reached Tuor, who one of the Noldor had grabbed by the shoulders and was holding in a manner that looked particularly painful. Erestor ran a soft touch down Tuor's cheek, but his eyes were on Glorfindel and he wrinkled his nose. "You look dreadful. Why don't you get yourself patched up while I deal with this one?"  
  
Glorfindel found that his vision was going blurry and he was having difficulty thinking. "We need to question him. There has to be more going on here than . . . "  
  
"I will tell you nothing!" Tuor spat, glaring daggers at Glorfindel.  
  
Elrohir had meanwhile dropped onto the ground at Glorfindel's side, and he slipped an arm about his lover's waist, pulling him off to the side of the glade where he could minister to him. Glorfindel rested his head on Elrohir's shoulder, hearing Erestor's soft laugh behind him. "Oh, I think you will," Erestor told Tuor briefly. Glorfindel smiled slightly; rather thought he would, too.  
  
* * *  
  
Haldir was looking crossly at Gildor, who had on what he had begun to think of as his "reasonable face." It meant that Gildor was silently telling himself to ignore his lover's ravings until he cooled down, and then they would make up. Only Haldir had no intention of cooling down, and the only way they were going to make up was if Gildor decided to properly submit.   
  
"I don't understand why you are upset, Haldir," Gildor was commenting quietly. "If I have done anything to hurt you, truly it was unintentional." He let his fingers softly caress the skin of Haldir's chest, visible through the opening of his nightshirt. "Perhaps I can think of a way to make it up to you?"  
  
Haldir pushed the questing hand away. "You are not going to distract me. We need to come to an understanding . . . " He was interrupted by the door to his room bursting open to reveal the little dwarf, who was looking even more crazed than usual.   
  
"You must come!" She ran over to Gildor and began tugging on the hem of his shirt. "Please, Gildor! Quickly!"  
  
"What is it? Elwyyda, what is wrong?"  
  
Haldir could not believe that his lover would turn away from him when they were in the middle of a serious conversation, just to bother with the maddening dwarf. It was, however, a symbol of everything that was wrong with their relationship. "Gildor--put her out now! We need to finish this."  
  
"In a moment, Haldir," Gildor said absently, as Elwyyda did her best to pull him towards the door.   
  
"No, now!"  
  
Haldir's words had no effect on his lover whatsoever, except to make him pause and glance back over his shoulder briefly. "I think this is important, but it should not take long. I will be right back . . ."  
  
"Gildor." Haldir put as much force into his words as he could. "If you walk out that door, don't bother coming back."  
  
Gildor sighed. "I'll see you in a few minutes, Haldir," he said, and he was gone. Just like that. Haldir stared at the door in disbelief. The dwarf came by with some trivial problem--probably stubbed her toe on the stairs in frustration that she hadn't been able to assault Haldir recently--and Gildor went off with her with barely a word for him. If Haldir had had any questions about the way in which his lover saw their relationship, he had just had them answered.   
  
Fine, he thought, glaring at the closed door. Let him go. It doesn't matter. Haldir briefly amused himself thinking how easy it would be to replace Gildor--there were, after all, dozens of elves falling over themselves to get close to him. He could have anyone he wanted . . . the only problem was that there was only one elf he really, truly DID want, and he had just watched him walk away.   
  
Haldir glared at the door some more, then sighed and got up, hobbling over to the wardrobe to find something suitable to wear. He and Gildor were going to have this out. His lover could not merely walk out of his life without having to give some explanation for his actions. If Haldir meant so little to him, fine. But he was going to have to say it, was going to have to put his rejection into words. Pulling a blue tunic over his head, Haldir wrenched open the door to his room and looked out at an empty corridor. So where had that cursed dwarf taken Gildor, anyway?  
  
* * *  
  
TBC 


	26. Chapter twentySix

Title: Wild Justice 26/?   
Author: Rune Dancer  
Rating: R   
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline.   
Warnings: BDSM.   
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused.   
  
* * *  
  
Gildor paused and looked around. A glance behind him showed that Elwyyda had been right; the portal was visible, but so faint that he would not have been able to see it at all if he hadn't known where to look. The room in which he stood was beautiful, with much brightly polished wood, a heavy plush carpet on the floor, and lined to the high ceiling with an impressive collection of scrolls and books. An open tome on a nearby table had an amazing illustration of the two trees; it was so lifelike that Gildor almost thought he could see the wind blowing through the treetops, causing the intertwined silver and gold leaves to flash and glisten independently.   
  
He shook his head. He wasn't supposed to be sightseeing, but trying to find Zirak. He moved across the study to the door at the far end, and almost ran into the elf standing there. He did not know him, but it could not be Zirak; this elf radiated power and personality, and was also one of the most attractive individuals he had ever seen. Gildor managed to stop gaping at him after a moment, and could only be grateful that he did not seem to have noticed.   
  
"You are Gildor?" The elf's brow wrinkled a little in surprise and his beautiful blue eyes looked puzzled. "But I know you, do I not? Did you live in Lindon once?"  
  
Gildor shook his head and suddenly he knew. As incredible as it seemed, this WAS Zirak. The elf moved with a fluid grace that was completely at odds with the slow shuffle Gildor had previously seen him use and he stood tall with a kingly bearing, not in a bent, humble attitude. His hair was a rich, deep brown that only missed being black because of the warm chestnut tones threaded through it. They glimmered in the dim light, as did the bright, cornflower blue of his eyes. Gildor realised he was gaping again and forced himself to snap out of it. "I . . . I never knew Lindon, my lord." Gildor did not know why he added that title to his address, as he had never been informed of Zirak's status, but it only seemed fitting. He simply had to be from a noble house--his every word and gesture proclaimed it.  
  
"I am certain I know you from somewhere; I never forget a face. But no matter, come with me." Zirak took Gildor by the arm and led him swiftly down the passageway to where it connected with a long gallery hung with many portraits. It, too, was a beautiful room, with the highly polished wood of the floor almost blinding in its brightness under several hanging chandeliers, but Gildor had no time to admire it. The fierce battle that was taking place at the far end caught his eye at once and he stood, staring in shock, as Lord Elrond fought an elf who looked exactly like Zirak, right down to the old fashioned, blue velvet robes they both wore. Lord Elrond was in an advantageous position half way up a broad, curving staircase, for his opponent was below and therefore did not have the height advantage. Their swords flashed almost too swiftly to see, and the sounds of combat filled the room. Gildor had never seen such skill, and was rather abashed to think of how proud he had been to win the sword contest at Imladris several years before. Lord Elrond had judged it, and had had nothing but praise for his abilities; he now saw just how amateurish his talents must have seemed to one with that kind of prowess. Yet the other elf was also skilled, and seemed to have more power behind his thrusts; slowly, Lord Elrond was being driven up the stairs towards a dark corridor at the top.  
  
Gildor moved instinctively forward to intervene, but Zirak held him back. "No, you cannot help him. You do not have the strength to fight against his opponent and would only be injured or distract Elrond and cause him harm. That is not why I brought you here." Gildor looked down to see Zirak holding out a delicately wrought, mithril dagger. It was a beautiful thing, with unusual etching along its polished blade, and a large sapphire set into its carved hilt. "Take it." Gildor did so, admiring the way it caught the light; whoever had made this was a master indeed. "Now," Zirak told him calmly, "I would appreciate it if you would kill me."  
  
* * *  
  
"He was bewitched."  
  
"What?" Glorfindel looked up to see Erestor standing over him, wiping his hands on a cloth. He looked calm and unruffled, but his eyes glittered with repressed emotion.   
  
"Tuor. The idiot of Mirkwood. I can't believe I once helped to train that elf."  
  
Glorfindel sat up from his position reclining against a tree trunk, to better observe his friend. Erestor squatted inelegantly before him so that they could speak privately. "Who bewitched him?"  
  
Erestor sighed. "That is a good question. He says that a scouting party of orcs captured him a few days ago while he was on patrol. They supposedly took him to a cave in the mountains where he was put under an enchantment by a shrouded figure. He was told that, if he informed them when and where our attack was to come, he would be rewarded. When he was asked what he wanted, he replied you. Dead. Preferably painfully. Of course," Erestor smiled evilly, "he assures us that the spell must have been responsible for his request, as he has nothing but the greatest respect for you."  
  
"Of course."   
  
"Whoever it was apparently convinced him that Thranduil would not be harmed, and the Mirkwood elves who did not fall in battle would be released. The belief was conveyed that the orcs' quarrel was with Lorien alone." Glorfindel regarded Erestor in disbelief, but his friend just shrugged. "I am simply telling you what he said--I did not say that I believed him. In any case, when we were delayed this morning because of Elrohir's little fit, Tuor slipped off to warn his new found friends that the previous information he had delivered was wrong, and agreed instead to assist them by calling off the sentries. Fortunately, I became suspicious and followed him; unfortunately, I could not get close enough to hear what he was saying to the two figures he met."  
  
"But you might have been alerted by the fact that they were orcs."  
  
Erestor shot him a glance but, presumably due to his status as temporary invalid, did not respond as he might have. "They were heavily muffled up--I never saw their faces. And I don't like ambushing people in a forest. There are too many places where reinforcements may be hiding." He paused while Elrohir brought Glorfindel some miruvor to drink, then left to tend to the others. Luckily, other than for Glorfindel, they had few wounded. Considering how the battle could have turned out, he considered his own wound a minor price to pay.  
  
"I did not discern his plans until he sent the sentries away, and by that time the orcs were practically on top of us." Erestor looked about the glade, where dozens of orc carcasses still lay, disgust on his features. "I did not expect an attack by daylight, but the forest canopy apparently dims the light enough that these animals can see to fight."  
  
"So how much of his sad tale do we believe?" Glorfindel's faith in Tuor's words hovered at about zero, but Erestor seemed slightly more optimistic.   
  
"He was put under some sort of enchantment, of that I do not think there is much doubt--I have seen cases like this before. However, his hatred and jealousy of you is also undoubted, and the spell would likely not have been effective if it had not had that base from which to draw. I also believe that, enchantment or no, he was aware that elves would die because of his actions, but seems not to have cared as long as Thranduil was not one of them. Since he aided the attack by sending away the sentries, he is undoubtedly guilty of kin slaying, even though he does not appear to have raised a hand against an elf himself."  
  
Glorfindel refrained from commenting that Tuor had been perfectly willing to raise a hand against him, and that he was likely the secret assassin who had almost caused Elrohir's death. For that alone he would pay, and dearly, but he might be of use first. "Is he willing to help mitigate his fault by assisting us?"  
  
Erestor smiled. "More than willing, after some persuasion, although I would not trust him out of my sight. He thinks he can lead us back to the cave where he was questioned, and possibly get us inside. It seems to me that this is our best chance to rescue any elves who may be trapped in the mines, as the main force of orcs must still be chasing our army." Erestor saw Glorfindel's expression and nodded. "I agree with you--I, too, would prefer to aid them--but common sense dictates that we take this chance while we have it. We may never have another as good. Besides, we cannot tilt the odds greatly in their favour by rejoining the party--there are too few of us--but we CAN do this."  
  
Glorfindel nodded. He agreed that their odds were considerably better with most of the orcish force elsewhere. Even thought there were only twenty-four of them, and one might well turn traitor given half a chance, this was the best opportunity they were likely to get. Glancing up at the small amount of blue visible through patches in the trees, he noticed that the morning was all but gone. "We had best hurry, then, before night falls and gives the orcs an advantage."  
  
* * *  
  
Haldir reached Lord Elrond's rooms after a brief search of nearby floors. He found Gildor sitting on the edge of the bed, his hand firmly grasping Elrond's, while the master of Imladris was curled up against Zirak. All three appeared to be fast asleep. The scene was so unlike anything he had expected that Haldir just stood there until Elwyyda glanced up and ordered him out. She was sitting in a chair on the far side of the bed, looking like nothing so much as a nanny watching over her infant charges--a brooding nanny wearing a deep frown. Just the sight of her was enough to enrage Haldir.  
  
"Gildor . . . ," he put out a hand towards his lover, only to have the dwarf let out a screech and come flying at him from around the bed.   
  
"No! Do not touch him! He will come back when he is finished."  
  
Haldir glared at the creature who stood between him and his lover, as she had been doing since her arrival at Lorien. If not for her, he and his lover would not be having all these problems; if not for her, he and Gildor would likely never have quarreled. He was about to give her a proper dressing down, which she had needed for some time, but then a horrible thought entered his head. What if he had been right all along and she really WAS mad? What if they had brought back a dangerous lunatic who had waited for the appropriate moment, and then poisoned all within her reach? Haldir felt dizzy from the very thought of Gildor's death; if he was too late, he would never forgive himself!  
  
Knocking the dwarf aside harshly, he knelt at the side of the bed, frantically searching for some sign of life. Yes, there it was--Gildor was breathing, but only very shallowly; the Valar only knew what the mad creature had given him! Haldir moved to take his lover into his arms, intending to carry him to the healers, momentarily forgetting that his weak ankle would likely make that impossible. It became moot when the room abruptly fell away.  
  
Haldir fell with a thud to his knees in pitch-blackness. A second later, the dwarf fell on top of him, knocking the air from his lungs and squashing him almost flat; she must have been eating well since her arrival in Lorien. "See?" Her harsh tones grated on his eardrum, "You're messing everything up! I should have locked you in!"  
  
"I . . . where is this place?" Haldir had never seen anything like it, and could not imagine how he could have been transported anywhere so quickly. Had someone snuck up behind him and hit him over the head? He rolled out from under the dwarf, feeling for any bumps on his cranium as he did so, but he seemed fine. The dwarf could not have assaulted him in any case, unless she had acquired an accomplice; she had been knocked halfway across the room by his blow. She was, he noticed, still rubbing her arm and muttering to herself.   
  
"We must go back," she announced by way of reply. "You will only get into trouble here, as you always do."  
  
Haldir gave her a suitable glare, then ignored her. He did not need her help; he was perfectly capable of getting out of this situation himself. It was the dwarf who gave him the first clue of how to do so, however inadvertently. Seeing his expression, she moved quickly to where a large, slightly cracked mirror rested against the black surface of the wall and stood before it, arms crossed over her chest, rather in the form of a guard before the portal to a treasure house. "Go back!," she ordered again, and once more Haldir ignored her. Then a flash of colour in the mirror captured his attention. Since it was obviously not reflecting his own surroundings, Haldir decided that it had to be a doorway despite its appearance. He hoped it was the way out, but at least the room beyond it seemed well lit, which made it much more appealing than his current position. The fact that the dwarf evidently did not want him to pass only made it still more attractive.  
  
Pushing the dwarf out of the way--a bit more gently this time as assaulting females, even maddening, probably insane ones, was not to his liking--Haldir stepped through a flimsy barrier into a well-lit study. No one was about, but an open door showed the way to a corridor. The sound of combat came to his ears, and he hurried down the passageway to where a gallery branched off from the main hall, its west facing windows looking out onto a darkened garden. Two sets of people were fighting. The one on the stairs at the far end of the room barely registered with him, because the nearest set of combatants included Gildor, who was dodging around furniture, trying to elude a tall elf Haldir did not recognise.   
  
"Gildor!"  
  
"Grab him! Haldir, be quick!" The words had scarcely left Gildor's mouth when Haldir had the strange elf in an arm lock, and had forced him to drop the ornate knife he carried and had been brandishing at Gildor.   
  
"Thank you!' Gildor came out from behind a large, ornately carved chair, and regarded the dark haired elf with what looked like pity. The elf did not struggle once it became obvious that he could not break Haldir's hold; instead, he concentrated on addressing Gildor in a voice that almost commanded obedience.   
  
"Do it. You must, or all hope is lost."  
  
Gildor shook his head regretfully. "You are ill," he told him softly, "you do not know what you are saying. We will take care of you and help you to regain your senses." Gildor looked up and his expression was sad. "He wants to kill himself or, rather, he wants me to do it for him. You must keep hold of him while I help Lord Elrond."  
  
"No!" Elwyyda's voice came suddenly from behind Haldir, startling him as he had not heard her enter. He glanced over his shoulder to see the crazed creature holding one of the huge swords that he had vaguely noticed adorning the area over the fireplace in the study. It was almost too heavy for her to lift, but she managed nonetheless, although the tip wavered slightly. The sword looked wickedly sharp to Haldir and was about an inch from his back, roughly over the position of his heart. If she lost her balance, he would likely suffer the colossal indignity of being killed by a female dwarf. "Let him go."   
  
Haldir looked up at Gildor, who nodded slightly. In one swift movement, Haldir pushed his captive into Gildor's waiting arms, then spun to disarm the lunatic behind him before she committed murder. Elwyyda struggled when he clasped her to him, but he knew her well enough to insure that there were no opportunities for her to bite or kick.   
  
"We have to tie them up," Gildor advised. "One of us has to be free to assist Lord Elrond." Haldir now had a spare moment to glance at the other set of combatants, and he noticed that Elrond was battling an elf who looked like the twin of the one he'd captured. None of this made the least sense, but the important thing was to insure that Elrond was not run through; he could get the details later. Haldir slid off his tunic belt and wrapped it securely about Elwyyda's hands, before tying her to the sturdy oak chair. It probably would not hold her for long, given her penchant for causing trouble, but they wouldn't need much time. The elf battling Lord Elrond seemed skilled, but two against one were good odds. Due to his injury, Haldir moved to take over from Gildor as the elf's captor, so his lover could deal with subduing Lord Elrond's opponent.  
  
"No! Please, do not interfere!" The elf began struggling in Gildor's hold again, but was held fast. His voice was nonetheless commanding enough to make Haldir pause slightly before stooping to pick up the sword Elwyyda had dropped. He had intended to pass it to Gildor, but there was something in the elf's tone that made it difficult to ignore him. "You will only make things worse--you MUST listen to me!"  
  
"Haldir--Lord Elrond needs our aid." Gildor's softly spoken comment was certainly true, for at almost the same moment Elrond was forced to leap over the stairwell to avoid being skewered, and landed on the slippery floor below without his usual grace. He was breathing heavily, while his opponent, who followed him easily, looked cool and rested.   
  
"Please, just listen for a moment--I beg you."   
  
Haldir looked into the elf's blue eyes and was lost. He barely heard Gildor ask what he was waiting for; instead, he rested the sword tip on the ground and nodded at the strangely charismatic elf. "You have two minutes."  
  
* * *  
  
Thranduil waited, patiently, for the party of fifty or so orcs to get a little closer. Celeborn was off somewhere nearby, setting other traps with his elves, true to their plan to make the forest into a killing field for the creatures. Thranduil was pretty proud of the plan, considering that it had been made literally while on the run, and they had had at the same time to coordinate the retreat of their forces so that they did not become separated. He had forgotten the thrill of battle, of thinking on his feet, and making split second decisions which all had to be right or disaster could result. He had found it exhilarating, pulling trick after trick on an enemy who, although stupid, far outnumbered them. It had been even more of a gamble when it because obvious that someone who did have brains was in overall charge, for several of his and Celeborn's hastily thrown together plans had to be scuttled at the last minute when the enemy took effective countermeasures. Still, they had done well, and were now working to pick off as many of the huge orc army as they could before it reached Lorien.   
  
Messages had, of course, been sent, informing his own realm, Lorien and Rivendell of the danger, and ordering the mobilisation of an army to match the hoard steadily working its way towards the elvin kingdoms. But it would take time for the news to spread, and time for the soldiers to be assembled and outfitted. No one had anticipated a war; with Sauron currently a powerless, disembodied spirit, who would coordinate such a thing? There had not even been any rumours of a supposed threat, and he would have known for his spies went everywhere. Unlike the Galadrim who hated to leave their forest, he had long known that knowledge was power, and had a sophisticated network of informants spread throughout Middle Earth. Little happened that Thranduil did not know about, but this had caught him completely by surprise. Thus neither he nor anyone else had made preparations to deal with the return of evil. It was a mistake he would insure was not repeated in future, but the important thing at the moment was to insure that there was a future at all. He and Celeborn had decided while jumping from limb to limb in a mad, tree top retreat, to use their small force to slow down the orcs as much as possible and insure that many never reached their intended destinations.  
  
Sounding a birdcall across the forest, Thranduil alerted Legolas, who was hidden in the undergrowth with several other warriors, that the creatures had been spotted. A second later the group of orcs reached the optimal position, and Thranduil cut the cord near his hand. Immediately, a lightweight net of fine, Lorien rope fell on their heads, gossamer as a spider's web and just as strong. The creatures let out a collective roar and tried to fight it, but only succeeded in further ensnaring themselves. As the hidden elvin warriors emerged and began insuring that these orcs, at least, were no longer part of anyone's battle plan, Thranduil wove a spell to keep their cries from being heard by other orcs in the area. A few minutes later and all was complete, except for the sticky task of separating the strands of rope from the butchered bodies it ensnared.   
  
Nodding once at Legolas, Thranduil merged with the forest again, his dark green tunic a bit more spattered with orc blood than before, but that was a decoration he would wear gladly. Reaching out with his senses, he searched for the next little group to be dispensed with. The trees whispered to him that a larger unit of perhaps two hundred orcs was nearby, just over a small ridge. They would soon be passing through a gully where, he was assured, they would be easy prey. He smiled. He had a long way to go to repay the vile creatures for the slaughter they had inflicted on his people in the Misty Marshes, as well as for the elves he had lost this day, but the prospects seemed fair to making a good start on it. The orcs would rue the day they ever left their mountains for the green elvish forests.  
  
* * *  
TBC 


	27. Chapter TwentySeven

Title: Wild Justice 27/?   
Author: Rune Dancer  
Rating: R   
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline.   
Warnings: BDSM.   
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused.   
  
* * *  
  
The cave was just a cave, and a boring one at that--nothing more than a small round indentation in the rock situated behind a narrow crevice. It could have been where Tuor met his mysterious stranger, or it could have been simply a hole in the wall; there was no way to tell. One thing seemed certain, however; it did not contain an alternate route into the mountain. Erestor backed Tuor dangerously close to the ledge by the cave's entrance, to the point where his heels were actually dangling off the edge, before politely asking why he had deceived them. Tuor swallowed, but his voice was steady when he replied.  
"I assumed there was an entrance to the mines here, since this is where I met my . . . contacts, but I never actually saw one."   
  
Erestor considered pushing him off the side of the mountain, just to see how many bumps he would take on the way down, and something of his thoughts must have shown in his eyes, for Tuor blanched visibly. After letting him worry for a few seconds, Erestor released him. He had received the impression that Glorfindel had some sort of plans for Tuor, and he made it a point never to interfere with someone else's revenge.  
  
Erestor was loath to try the same entrance as on their previous trip, as their killing of the guards on the way out must have made it obvious that they knew about it. Surely, after the recent battle, the entrance would be well fortified. But when a painstaking search of the cave disclosed no other way into the mines, he reluctantly agreed that they had no choice. There was no way to tell how long it would be before the main body of orcs returned, and they had to be long gone by then. "With any luck, our enemies will assume that we would never try that way again." Erestor raised a brow but did not bother to contradict Glorfindel, who was obviously trying to raise the elves' morale.   
  
Erestor was soon distracted from his gloomy thoughts by an argument that flared up between Glorfindel and Elrohir. They were whispering, albeit in rather savage undertones, but it was easy enough for elvish ears to hear them. Erestor bustled the other elves out of the cavern, giving Camthalion orders to personally watch over Tuor as he did so, then returned to the cave to mediate. How these two had ever managed to be a couple for centuries without killing each other and everyone else around them was a continual source of amazement to him. There was certainly nothing tepid about their relationship.  
  
" . . . and that is final!" Glorfindel was looking as livid as Erestor could ever remember seeing him as he glowered at his young companion.  
  
"I have passed my majority. You can no longer order me about." Elrohir looked calmer than his lover at the moment, his face almost serene, but Erestor did not take heart from that fact. He remembered the expression well from the elf's childhood; it denoted that he had made up his mind and was no longer even considering another point of view. Erestor had found that arguing with him when he wore that face was an exercise in futility. The Peredhils could be the most stubborn elves in all of Arda when they chose, and it was clear that Elrohir had done so.   
  
"I am not going to argue with you, Elrohir. If you attempt to follow us you will be tied to a tree and left there!"   
  
"As orc bait?" Erestor decided to take the plunge. If they had a common source of irritation in him, perhaps they would stop looking daggers at each other.  
  
"Stay out of this, Erestor."   
  
Erestor would have liked to oblige, as he did not normally tease his friend when he was in a mood, but he had little choice. Valuable time was being wasted while they argued. "We must go, Glorfindel. The longer we wait, the greater risk we take. What seems to be the problem?"  
  
Elrohir answered for him, looking disgusted. "Glorfindel wants me to remain behind with the wounded!"   
  
"You are our only healer! They require your attention."   
  
Elrohir shrugged off his lover's comment. "None is in any danger, as I told you. I have dressed their wounds, all they need now is a little time to recover. Even at the moment, though, they are perfectly capable of defending themselves against a small band of orcs, and if a larger group was to come across them, what use would one more elf be? As long as they stay out of sight, they should be fine."  
  
Erestor personally agreed with this assessment, but it was clear that Glorfindel did not. He was being unusually protective, which was odd as Elrohir had demonstrated that he was able to defend himself nicely even without his memories. He had fought well in the orc attack several days before--Erestor had been quite proud of him--and a number of Elrohir's arrows had been sticking out of orc bodies in the glade that morning. It was probable that Elrohir would be safer outside the mines rather than in, but it was also true that they needed every elf for this plan to have a chance at success.   
  
"You need me," Elrohir was saying, echoing Erestor's thoughts. "You don't know what we'll find in the mines, and our numbers are small enough already."  
  
"I don't care," Glorfindel began, and Elrohir's face flushed with anger at the command in his lover's tone.  
  
"Glorfindel, if I might speak with you for a moment?" Erestor grabbed his friend's arm and forcibly towed him out of the cave to a spot in the forest some distance away. "Are you quite mad?"  
  
"Let go of my arm and stop interfering!"  
  
"I will stop interfering as soon as you stop acting like an idiot. One is enough for our party, don't you think? Or is Tuor's madness catching? You know perfectly well that the hard line approach is unlikely to work with Elrohir."  
  
"I will not permit him to come with us--it is too risky. I meant what I said, Erestor--I will tie him up if I have to and leave the wounded with orders to do whatever is necessary to keep him from following us. Even a slight injury would be better than . . . "  
  
"So now you are planning to break his leg while we are surrounded by orcs and could be ambushed at any moment? What has he done that you wish him dead?"  
  
Glorfindel looked truly haggard for a moment as he ran a distracted hand through his hair. His braids were less than their usual perfection and his eyes looked tormented. "His death is what I am trying to avoid! He CANNOT come, Erestor." He sighed, "I do not have time to explain right now, but as strange as it may sound, Elrohir was supposed to die today. I prevented it, altered the way things were meant to happen, but now I am consumed by fear that I actually only delayed them. He has not yet realised fully who he is, and therefore he is vulnerable. I will NOT take him into certain danger!"  
  
Erestor regarded his friend from under hooded eyes. Glorfindel seemed, to those who did not know him well, to have a sunny disposition and an open character. His blue eyes could look completely guileless when he wanted, and he did possess a strange innocence, despite his many experiences. But that candid look had never fooled Erestor into believing that it was all there was to Glorfindel. He had been suspicious of him for years after he showed up at Imladris one day, seemingly out of the blue, claiming to be the famous balrog slayer of Gondolin. Although a few elves had sworn to his identity, Erestor had argued vociferously with Elrond against accepting him into his service. It had been to no avail, but he had made it his business to watch him closely thereafter. He had only decided to trust him after Glorfindel saved Elrond from the attack of a huge orc at Barad-dur, which Erestor had seen coming but been too far away to prevent. Yet he had never allowed himself to believe, no matter how close they later became, that he knew all of the seneschal's secrets. "Elrohir was supposed to die?"  
  
"I told you, I don't have time to explain. You must trust me, and help restrain him!"  
  
Erestor cocked an eyebrow and struggled to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. He was not entirely successful. "How quickly you forget. Elrohir was always less obvious than his brother, but he was also quite the prankster not so long ago. Have you forgotten his dare to Elladan? To see which of them could free themselves first from the restraints he cajoled the servants into putting on them? Poor Elladan was left tied to a chair in the map room for the better part of the day before I found him. He was livid, as it had only taken Elrohir about fifteen minutes to get loose, and from Lorien rope at that! So tell me, what exactly do you plan to use as restraints?"  
  
"I don't know, but there must be a way. He HAS to be persuaded to remain, or the prophecy may yet come true."  
  
Erestor glanced over to the small grassy area before the cave where Camthalion was practicing his archery. He had tied the traitor to a dead tree and appeared to be using his head as a target. White fletched Lorien arrows outlined the elf's skull, most missing the flesh by only a fraction of an inch, while a terrified Tuor struggled to stay absolutely still. Erestor smiled; nice technique, as long as he didn't miss. Then again, that would not be so terrible either. "I have an idea."  
  
* * *  
  
Celeborn waited with ten of his Galadrim in the branches of the trees near the edge of the woods. In front of them was an open space of perhaps eighty yards where no trees grew. Bright sunlight cascaded over the pretty green sward, causing the flowers nestled amid tufts of grass to reach their heads hungrily towards the sky. It was perfect, too bad that it would shortly be covered with corpses. Still, after the day he had had, Celeborn was beginning to see the beauty in a pile of dead orcs--as long as it was a very large pile.   
  
He tensed as he heard the sounds of the approaching swarm. They were so confident in their numbers that they did not bother to even attempt stealth. Not that it would have mattered; the trees were proving very cooperative in giving warning of their approach. They had a vested interest in seeing the creatures that despoiled their woods on a regular basis were forced to pay for it. Celeborn had never really realised before just how vindictive trees could be. He smiled; he would have to make sure the mallyrn didn't hear about this; no sense giving them ideas.  
  
Just then the huge party of orcs, at least five hundred strong, burst into the open, complaining foully about the light as they tried to shield their eyes with hands and loose bits of cloth. Celeborn had never known exactly how well orcs could see in daylight, but considering some of the complaints they had been making about the dim light under the trees, he did not think it was very well. He had taken the chance that the bright sunlight of midday would all but blind them, and it seemed he had been right. The leaders struggled on in the general direction of the woods on the far side of the field, but their wavering steps made it obvious that they were pushing on in the correct direction from memory rather than sight. The blinded soldiers behind them kept crashing into the leaders and each other, their curses and shouts echoing around the forest.   
  
Holding up a hand to prevent his elves from moving too soon, Celeborn calmly waited for the stinking mass to fully leave the shelter of the trees before giving the signal to attack. Just then he felt a caressing hand on his shoulder. He was so wound up that he almost gave the signal too early in his surprise. What elf would dare be so overly familiar with him? He glanced back to see Thranduil's large grin lighting up the gloom. He should have known; nothing seemed to phase the Mirkwood king's good humour. In fact, he appeared to be enjoying himself.  
  
"My groups have killed almost a thousand already, Celeborn. What's your total?"  
  
Celeborn surprised himself by not being angry, either at the implication that he must certainly have tallied up less, or at the warm hand that showed no sign of being withdrawn. There was something impressive about Thranduil's simple, almost childlike enthusiasm for the hunt. He was so different from the more formal elves around whom Celeborn spent most of his time that, despite his tendency to be extremely annoying on a frequent basis, his company was quite refreshing. All of a sudden Celeborn caught some of the king's pleasure in the chase. "About to surpass yours. Attack!"   
  
Celeborn fell from the tree as he spoke, landing on the back of the large orc that had paused directly beneath him. It was the last of a few stragglers who had been loath to leave the trees. It needn't have worried about being uncomfortable on its way across the field; with a stroke of his knives, Celeborn made certain it never left the shadows.   
  
Killing the rest of the orcs was almost depressingly easy, as they were as good as blinded in the sunlight. The work was quickly done, but there was no time to rest. Thousands more were making their way slowly but steadily towards Lorien. They were yet four days travel away by horse, so at least double that on foot, but the thought gave Celeborn little ease of mind. Like elves, orcs could travel for long periods without rest, thereby cutting the distance, and as soon as night came, their sharp eyes would be more than a match for those of the elves. They had to kill as many as possible before twilight fell, and then find some way to track them through the darkness without having them use the night as the elves had used the day to blind their enemies. It was going to be a long fight.  
  
* * *  
  
Gil-Galad looked into the steady blue gaze of the blond elf opposite him, and tried to think. How to explain all that had passed, or at least as much as he remembered of it, to anyone in the ridiculous space of two minutes? How to put into words that which he longed only to forget once more? But he had to try, or all hope was lost and Elrond would surely die.   
  
"Do you know what happened to Sauron after the Last Alliance?"  
  
The elf who Gildor had called Haldir narrowed his eyes and looked suspicious. "Everyone does. Why do you speak of this?"  
  
"Because everyone is wrong." Gil-Galad glanced back at the combatants as he spoke. Elrond was weakening and his opponent was not slow in pressing his advantage. There was no time for diplomacy under the circumstances. "Sauron knew he could not triumph over Middle earth as long as the elvish forces remained strong, but he had not succeeded in besting us in war, even at the height of his power, so how could he hope to do so as a disembodied spirit? He decided that what he could not win by force he would take by stealth and cunning. He had one of his servants, the Lord of the Nazgul, assemble an army and equip them with mithril weapons from a secret mine. The army is finally ready and is on its way here now. It is to attack from without while he destroys from within. His plan is to bring all elves under his control by taking on the guise of someone they will follow without question."   
  
"No elf would follow Sauron. You lie."  
  
"Not knowingly follow, no, but has not Sauron deceived elves before while in disguise? He came once as the deceiver Annatar, and was prevented from gaining complete control then only because Cirdan discerned his true nature, as did I."  
  
"And who are you, to be so wise?"   
  
Gil-Galad hesitated, but he preferred not to reveal his real name if it could be avoided. Under the circumstances, it could backfire and insure that nothing else he said was taken seriously. These two had never known him, so why should they believe him to be the High King, one they had been taught was long dead? He settled for a vague truth. "Not who I once was. Sauron has long been with me, been a part of me, because of the witchcraft of the Lord of the Nazgul. No one can live with his presence and not be altered by it. That is why you MUST kill me, for I cannot control him much longer, and as soon as he breaks free, I will not be able to determine my actions. He is a great deceiver, and good at reading the hearts of others. Wearing my face, he will be able to convince most of the elves to follow him anywhere, even into certain destruction."  
  
Haldir regarded the elf in front of him with puzzlement. His words were those of a lunatic, but his face was earnest. Haldir had no trouble believing that this elf genuinely thought he was telling the truth, but no one could believe such a tale. "You say Sauron is a part of you?"  
  
"Not a part exactly, no, but he has long resided with me, for his soul took up residence in my body many years ago. He used every trick imaginable to delude me into following his lead." Gil-Galad could tell that Haldir did not believe him; the skepticism on his face was obvious, and he was glancing towards the combatants with increased frequency. As much as he hated to hurry this, for it would sound even more odd without adequate background, he had no choice. "Sauron found that he could not break my will, so he tried to weaken my resolve by punishing me in the mines. Over the centuries, he destroyed much of my memory and greatly weakened me physically, but it was only recently as I neared death that he gained a tenuous hold over me. He did not dare to wait to try and strengthen it for fear that I would die and he would be again without physical form. So the Nazgul ordered the guards to let Elwyyda escape, knowing that she would tell her story and my people would come for me."  
  
"Enough of this!" Haldir interrupted as Lord Elrond was sent spinning into a large urn. It shattered, scattering earth and plant material all over the previously pristine floor. "I do not know what illness afflicts your mind, but there is no more time for talk!" Haldir grabbed Zirak and thrust the sword into Gildor's hands. "Do what you must, but have a care--that one is skilled, whoever he is."  
  
"No!" Gil-Galad managed to put a restraining hand on the sword as Gildor tried to move past him. "You must not! That is Sauron himself that Elrond faces, and I can do no more than I already have to restrain him. If you try to help you will only be killed! But if you destroy me, Sauron's spirit has no way to deceive the elves. He cannot use another body, for all of the other high-ranking elves he captured were killed when he tried to merge with them. I alone managed to survive the process. The only others who still live are those he considered beneath his notice. If I die, it will take him centuries, possibly millennia, to return, if he manages to do so at all!"  
  
Gildor paid no attention, but wrested the sword from Gil-Galad's grasp while Haldir pulled him back by arms wrapped firmly about his waist. Seeing that Gildor meant to foolishly go to his death and being unable in his weakened state to break Haldir's hold, the king played his last card. People had often said that he could command armies with his voice alone, and that his presence was almost a tangible thing. Gil-Galad himself had always believed that that had more to do with the position he occupied than any inherent trait, but now he hoped he had been wrong. "Stop! I am Erenion Gil-Galad, last of the High Kings of the Noldor!" Gildor spun around at his proclamation, his expression one of shock, awe and dawning comprehension. "You are obviously Noldorin, Gildor, so you and all your family owe me allegiance! As your lord and king I command you, kill me now!"  
  
* * *  
  
TBC 


	28. Chapter TwentyEight

Title: Wild Justice 28/?   
Author: Rune Dancer  
Rating: R   
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline.   
Warnings: BDSM.   
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused.   
  
* * *  
  
Elrond leapt back as Sauron's blade cut a gash in the air a hair's breadth from his chest. Grabbing hold of the heavy velvet curtains at the window, he yanked them from their sturdy pinnings and threw them over his opponent's head. Unfortunately, although the maneuver did save his life, it did little to slow down his adversary, who deftly shredded the curtains and once again took the offensive. Elrond was under no illusions as to the eventual outcome of this contest. He was descended of a Maiar, but such blood in him ran thin, whereas Sauron was fully Maiar and had been trained by the Ainur Melkor for centuries. Ultimately, Elrond knew he would lose; that he had been able to hold his own this long he could only attribute to Sauron's current weakness and Gil-Galad's interference.   
  
Although he hated to even think of it, Elrond recognised that a link of sorts had been formed between Sauron and the High King over the centuries in which they were bound together; Gil-Galad was able to exert some manner of control, or at least restraint, over the evil force that dwelled within him, but for how long was impossible to tell, and Elrond was running out of time. The strain of keeping the connection between him and the king was beginning to show; his movements were more sluggish than usual and his ability to think clearly was evaporating. But he could not stop, could not give in, or Sauron would overpower the king and force him to do his bidding. He had to hang on a little longer and pray for a miracle.  
  
Beyond the physical strain of the combat, was the bitter disappointment of finding out the true state of affairs. He had been so encouraged by the king's evident improvement over the past week, that he had allowed himself to believe that everything might actually end well. That very morning, when he made the connection between them, it had seemed that his prayers had finally been answered.   
  
Gil-Galad's mind had seemed different somehow, when Elrond entered the darkness and tried to determine where to begin the process of repair. He had managed a few minor improvements in the past few days, but the extent of the damage made it difficult to know how to proceed. He kept to his plan to begin slowly, as he had little experience with trauma of this magnitude, and to gain practice from healing the minor injuries before he faced the more severe and probably more complex ones. Approaching a large mirror that was only slightly cracked, he gazed into it, trying to discern which memory it housed. All he saw, however, was the main library at Lindon, and no one appeared to be about.   
  
He waited, but minutes passed and no sign of movement was visible except for the fire crackling in the grate. It was a puzzle, for the mirrors were supposed to be receptacles for the king's memories, yet he was not even in the scene. For a moment Elrond considered the possibility that he was simply seeing things from the king's perspective, a feeling with which he was beginning to be familiar, but that was not possible in this instance. He had spent many hours in this room and knew it well. There was no way for anyone to view things from that perspective, unless they were standing in the middle of a bookshelf.   
  
Moving closer, Elrond twisted about to try to see more of the scene, and then he noticed it--a faint ripple across the surface of the mirror, rather the way a leaf dropped into a still pond will slightly disturb the waters. Instinctively he put out a hand to touch it, having never seen any of the other mirrors do this, only to have his hand pass through the surface and into the room beyond. He froze for an instant, thoughts racing through his mind as he tried to imagine what could be causing this, but the only idea that caught his imagination was that, perhaps, this was the king's way of attempting to contact him. Elrond had yet to manage a meaningful conversation with the king, who could only give an occasional weak reply to very basic questions. Anything more than inquiries about his comfort or food preferences received only a beautiful, but blank, stare in return. It had been extremely frustrating to have to converse with one of the greatest minds he had ever known as if he was no more than a dim-witted child.  
  
But Elrond had sensed on several occasions that Gil-Galad was trying to communicate--such as in the strange occurrence with the book. Elrond had been reading aloud to the king from a volume of elvish history, concentrating on the fall of Gondolin. He had placed it on the table by the bed when the king drifted off to sleep, but when he picked it up later that day, his bookmark was gone and it lay open to the tale of the Last Alliance. The somewhat lurid painting on the left page showed Isildur ready to cut the ring from the hand of a menacing Sauron. Elrond had winced at the sight and quickly closed the book, having never liked reliving the last battle he had fought beside his king. He preferred to dwell on older history, which did not resonate so painfully. He had dismissed it as the work of a servant, and taken up the story where he had left off; but when he went back to it the next day, it was again showing that horrible painting. He had asked a few servants about it, but no one admitted to the act and he had finally put it from his mind. But now he wondered . . .   
  
Elrond decided to accept the invitation, if that was indeed what it was, and without another thought stepped through the mirror into the library he knew so well. It was a strange feeling to be back, as the last time he had seen it he had been in mourning for the king, almost out of his mind with grief, and now he entered once more in search of him. But his initial impression had been correct; although the room was exactly as he remembered it, no one was there.   
  
Elrond exited into the hallways and paused, listening. It was strange to be here again, in the place that held for him so many memories both sweet and tragic, but even stranger to hear no laughter, no songs, no light tread of elvin feet, no pretty maids gossiping or soldiers boasting . . . one thing the High King's court had never been was silent, yet this place echoed as if nothing but ghosts lived here. Elrond repressed a shudder at the thought of how close that might be to the truth. The only inhabitant now was not far from a ghost, although even he seemed to be absent. Elrond was almost glad, for he didn't know how he would react to seeing his king whole and uninjured once more, his health and beauty fully restored, just as he had been when last he walked these halls. The very idea sent such a flow of excitement through him that Elrond actually had to clutch at the wall for support. Being back here in Lindon, if only in a shadow of it, along with the possibility of being able to talk to the king once again, was all too much; the weeks of strain struggled against his usual calm to make even breathing difficult.   
  
Elrond leaned against the wall and briefly allowed himself the indulgence of wishing all the years away. If only he could go back, if only this place could be real, and all the errors and mistakes of the past could fall away . . . It had all been his fault, every miscalculation: he had allowed himself to be drawn away from his lord's side in battle, thereby making the king vulnerable to Sauron's attack; he had failed to see the king's danger before it was too late and had not prevented his injuries; he had not looked long or hard enough for him after the battle was over, and had thereby condemned him to centuries of misery; he had usurped in all but name his position, and in his pride had assumed that not taking the title of king exonerated him from assuming powers he was never meant to have. Elrond sank to his knees as the burden of grief and guilt became too much--so many mistakes, so many stupid errors, and yet none of his failings had hurt him, but rather the one he said he loved. But how could he have loved him in truth, and treated him so?  
  
And then, suddenly, it was like a veil was lifted from the scene. The colours brightened, and the air became rich with the smell of spicy food being prepared in the kitchens, oiled leather and hay from the stables just outside, and the faint, slightly sweet scent of the candles in their sconces. All the sounds he had previously missed came washing over him too, but Elrond barely noticed. For his eyes were fixed as if hypnotized on the only thing in this strange world that mattered, the elf who came striding down the corridor, dressed in a tunic of his favourite royal blue, sucking on the end of a quill as Elrond had seen him do a thousand times when pondering something. Elrond knelt there, gaping like a simpleton, until the king almost ran into him. Then Gil-Galad looked up from his book, with that dazed expression he always had when surprised out of contemplation, and regarded Elrond with astonishment. "Elrond, whatever are you doing there? Are you ill? Don't you remember that we have a council meeting in a few minutes?"  
  
Elrond just continued to gape, aware of how silly he probably looked but unable to respond. It was somehow worse than when he had recognised the living skeleton they had brought in as the High King. This elf was even more strong, vibrant and alive than he remembered him, and it made Elrond's betrayal all the more obvious. He had been the one who reduced this glorious creature to the shell he now was; how did he dare talk to him, dare even raise his eyes in his presence? "Elrond?" The king knelt before him and regarded him with concern, his hand smoothing the hair over Elrond's ears in a gesture so tender and so familiar that it was truly torture. Yet Elrond leaned into it, unable to stop himself, craving more of that touch that he had been so long denied. Before he could stop himself, he grasped the king--his king, always his--around the neck and drew him down into the kiss he had been waiting centuries to give. And it was in that instant, when their lips met, that Elrond knew that something was terribly wrong.  
  
He had been so surprised that he did nothing, just let the king take over the kiss, which he did with confident ease. It was a passionate, experienced expression . . . of absolutely nothing. The feeling Elrond had known so well--the warmth, the love, the caring--was completely absent. This kiss was only a gesture, and a hollow one at that. When they broke apart, Elrond managed, in a voice that sounded hoarse and quite unlike his own, to assure the king that he was perfectly well, and had merely felt dizzy for a moment. "Good, then come with me--we have that cursed meeting to finish, and then lunch will be upon us." Gil-Galad smiled, but his beautiful eyes did not reflect it. "I would much prefer to spend the entire day with you, my love, but duty calls. Still, there is tonight."  
  
Elrond nodded and followed him down the corridor, trying to seem as nonchalant as his turbulent emotions would allow, and attempting to concentrate his mind on the puzzles at hand. Why was Gil-Galad unaware that this was a memory? And if he was a part of the memory, why could Elrond interact with him as he had not been able to do with any of the other scenes he had witnessed? And more worrying still, why was he so very different in essence that Elrond remembered?   
  
Luckily, the council session proved to be one which, while Elrond did not recall it specifically, was so much like many others in which he had taken part over the years, that it required little of his concentration. Titton was droning on about new taxation procedures in his usual dry monotone, while Gil-Galad and the rest of the council pretended absorbed interest. In reality, most were probably day dreaming, and would only wake up when Titton began his summation, which would be much briefer and more to the point than anything else he would say all day. It usually also contained enough information to allow a judgment to be formed without listening to the preamble. Elrond himself was too flabbergasted to concentrate on anything, and could only hope no one would ask him for a response. His head was reeling and he could not make any sense of the insanity into which he'd landed. Then a flash of blue at the doorway caught his eye.  
  
Elrond decided he was going insane. He'd been under too much of a strain lately, that was all there was to it. What he thought he was seeing was simply impossible. He turned his attention back to the shining wooden surface of the table in front of him and tried to sink into it and absorb the impressions of the tree from which it had been formed. This sort of thing usually soothed him, but not in this case. This tree had died in agony, after having been struck by a bolt of lightening during a storm, and for some reason he was unable to see any of the more pleasant memories that must have preceded that. All he could sense was the way the lightening had felt like liquid fire as it spread through the tree, searing living tissue into dying, charred cinders . . . Elrond jerked his attention back to the discussion at hand before he embarrassed himself by crying out, but he still found it impossible to concentrate. Titton's droning made him want to throttle him, or perhaps to stand up and scream, but he was trapped by not knowing how real any of this was; although he had often fantasized in long meetings about killing Titton in various imaginative ways, he really did not think the elf's inherent dullness warranted it.  
  
Eventually, his eyes moved back to the doorway of their own accord, and there it was, that oh so familiar hand, still wearing Vilya and waving at him energetically from the bottom of the doorframe. He wondered what position an elf would have to be in to do that--was the High King actually lying on the floor?--but no, that could not be the king, for he was sitting at the head of the table looking bored. Elrond finally could take it no longer and abruptly stood, murmured an apology about not feeling well, and fled the room. Outside in the corridor he looked about, but found no phantom of his imagination lurking about. It was small comfort under the circumstances. He sought out a stone seat in the gardens, long a favourite spot for privacy. It was enclosed on three sides by an old vine, its main stem as thick around as a small tree trunk, which this time of year cascaded falls of bright green leaves about the little bench, all but obscuring it from view.   
  
What was happening to him? Was the king's mental instability affecting him, or was it possible that the opposite was true? What if, while intending to help the king, he was actually hurting him by merging when his own emotions were so unsteady? In Gil-Galad's weakened state, he might well be unable to handle the influx of feelings from Elrond's mind, which could in turn be causing even more instability in his own . . . Elrond's confused train of thought was interrupted by another flash of blue, this time from beyond the leaves of his bower. Deciding to find out once and for all what was going on, he reached around the side of the vine and pulled the elf beyond into his arms.  
  
A brief "oh!" was all he received in reply, until the elf twisted about, enveloping Elrond in a heartbreakingly familiar embrace. This time, when their lips met, there was no feeling of disorientation, no strangeness, no doubts; all was as it had always been and Elrond was, as ever, entranced. "I'm sorry, but I've been wanting to do that for so long . . . " The elf in his arms looked at him with the same slightly uncertain expression Elrond had often pondered and never understood. It was as if Gil-Galad was unsure of him, and was grateful for any period of time Elrond chose to give him. It had never seemed to matter how many times Elrond assured him of his beauty and charisma, of the fact that he was lucky to have the king waste any of his valuable time with him, that half of the elves in Lindon would joyously and immediately take his place, none of it ever seemed to penetrate. That charming uncertainty and complete absence of arrogance was one of many things that had been missing earlier. The other elf, whoever he was, might look just like the king, but he definitely did not feel like him.  
  
"What . . . who . . . ?" Elrond tried to put his confusion into words, but the king held two fingers up to his lips, quieting him with a gesture that was probably not supposed to be sensual, but managed nonetheless.   
  
"I will explain, but we can't stay here. He is already looking for you, to continue the charade until you drop your guard. He would have killed you earlier, but he sensed that I was near and preferred to wait until you were alone. He knows I am weak and cannot watch him all the time . . . "  
  
"Hush." It was Elrond's turn to quiet the king, who was growing agitated. "I don't understand, but I will follow you anywhere."  
  
"Quickly, then." Gil-Galad rose from the bench and, clasping Elrond's hand, drew him swiftly but silently through the winding pathways of the gardens beyond the great kitchens. Elrond had always preferred these wilder and homelier gardens to the more formal, manicured types that fronted the castle. Despite long years away, he found the beds of turnips and squash, cabbages and beans quite familiar, and could have made his way through the herb gardens beyond from their scent alone. They soon made their way to the forest, which was really only a small patch of trees surrounding a pretty lake. Almost completely round in shape, it had some added mineral in the water that caused it to have a green tint even under a bright blue sky, resulting in its prosaic name of Laica. Elrond had always thought of it was a great jewel, adorning the already breathtaking beauty of Lindon, and it made his heart glad when the king settled alongside it, hiding the two of them in the long grasses.  
  
Elrond wasted no time. If he was going insane, so be it, but at least he intended to enjoy the trip. "Amin lava, A'maelamin, you have captured me!" Drawing the king down on top of him, Elrond delighted in the weight and solidity of his lord, which was so lacking in the body he had been tending recently. His thoughts turned dark briefly then, at the knowledge that this was not, could not, be real, but when Gil-Galad's lips met his he forgot everything else. The kiss was surprisingly passionate on the king's part, and Elrond gave into it gladly, reveling in the unusual forcefulness of his lover. They used no words and needed none; the old patterns effortlessly reasserted themselves and it was almost as if they had never been apart at all.  
  
Elrond slid the blue velvet tunic off and gently settled his lover back onto the meadow, overcome as always by his beauty. His crisp white shirt soon joined the tunic on the grass, and Elrond was able to taste again the skin of his lover, smooth and taut and ithil pale against his flowing dark hair and the bright green blanket surrounding them. Elrond paused even as the king threaded his hands through his hair, pulling him closer. He felt unworthy to take even more pleasure from one who had given so much and received so little from him in the past. "Melethryn," he paused, wishing for some of Gil-Galad's eloquence and failing to find the right words. How to say that he had never deserved the king, had never been worthy of a fraction of the care he lavished on him, and in the end had unknowingly betrayed him? How to tell the heartbreaking truth that Gil-Galad was far better off without him?  
  
"I know, I know," the king murmured against his neck, hip lips causing shudders of pleasure to cascade through Elrond, "we do not have time for this. But oh my beloved, how I have missed you!" He caught Elrond again in a deep kiss, almost as if he was trying to merge their souls as well as their bodies, and all other thoughts fled as the king began to whisper words of his love and passion, of Elrond's purity of soul and beauty of heart, and of the long, empty years when he could not hold him.   
  
"But that need never be true again," Elrond assured him fiercely, "I do not know why you want me--I have never known--but as long as you do, I will be beside you." And I will never fail you again, he promised himself, kissing his lover as if he would never let him go. He suddenly noticed as he pressed his lips to his king's eyes, that he was weeping. "Do not cry, beloved. I will never leave you, never fail you, I swear it!"  
  
Gil-Galad shook his head, his tears becoming more obvious as he struggled to control them. "Elrond," he whispered brokenly, "you do not understand. It is I who have failed you, as I have all the elves. I should have been stronger, but I . . . "  
  
"Were never anything but a weak, puling coward of a creature who I still cannot believe I have managed to put up with all these years!" Elrond spun around at the harsh words, to see another Gil-Galad standing at the top of the bank, sword in hand. "If you were not the means for me to destroy all the elves, I swear I would have killed you centuries ago, just for being so annoying."   
  
Elrond rapidly looked between the two, searching for some clue as to what this was all about, but all he saw on either face was revulsion and hatred. The newcomer 's expression gave proof that he meant every word of his statement, while the High King looked as if he would love nothing more than holding his double's head under Laica's waters until he drowned. "Get behind me, Elrond," Gil-Galad ordered, and the tone he used was not one that brooked argument.   
  
"You cannot protect him forever," the double looked past the king to where Elrond had quickly scrambled to his feet. "I will enjoy killing you. You were always in the way, always the impediment to everything I tried to do. This one would have given in years ago, except for you. I could never manage to erase the memory of you from his mind, and he clung to it like a raft in a storm." He smiled, "But thanks to your acceptance of my little invitation, I will not have that problem for much longer!" The double launched himself from the bank and Elrond reached instinctively to his hip for his sword, but his hand encountered nothing but soft cotton material. He never carried arms in Lorien, for what would be the need? His mental projection was clothed just as he had been when he made the connection to the king, in a soft grey robe without so much as a piece of armor or even a small knife on his person.   
  
Elrond did not understand how it occurred, for the High King had also been unarmed, but suddenly a sword was in his hand and he swung it up in time to prevent his double from cleaving Elrond in two. The two weapons did not ring together so much as explode, and the High King fell to his knees in apparent agony from the force of the blast. His double rolled over in the grass, seemingly stunned for an instant, but he righted himself almost at once. "That won't work, you fool! How many times have you tried to kill me? How many times must you fail before you realise it cannot be done? I am stronger than you--accept it. Attack me again and it will be years before you're conscious again, if ever--because after I finish your precious little elves, I will take great pleasure in destroying the rest of you!"  
  
"Don't threaten me, Sauron," Gil-Galad replied, getting slowly to his feet and placing himself once more between his double and Elrond. "It weakens you to attack me and you know it. Your plans will fail if you waste too much energy fighting me, or perhaps I'll die--and that would scuttle all your hopes, wouldn't it?" The king kept his eyes on his double, the sword raised unwaveringly in front of him, but he addressed Elrond. "I am sorry, Elrond, I had hoped to have time to explain this in detail, but that is apparently denied me. What you saw in my mind concerning the Nazgul's experiments was true, except the part about them failing. Sauron made me show you that, but it was only another of his lies. The experiments WERE generally useless, just resulting in the deaths of the elves involved, but for some reason I survived the process. Sauron and I have been . . . cohabiting . . . now for quite some time. He wants to use me to distract and divide the elves while his army attacks, but I am not keen on the idea."  
  
Sauron was leaning on his sword, looking bored, as the king explained. Elrond knew he should feel horrified by what he had just heard, but at the moment was too stunned to feel much of anything. The High King and Sauron, sharing a body? It was too bizarre to be believed. Yet the evidence was right before his eyes, had been there for some time, for he had felt something wrong from the moment Gil-Galad returned to him. Then after the session with Thranduil, when they had seen the Nazgul's handiwork for themselves, he should have at least suspected the truth, but he had been blind. The idea of the most beautiful soul he had even known being invaded by . . . by . . . that thing . . . A rush of rage filled him at even the thought. Sauron had destroyed his happiness, killed thousands of elves at Barad-dur, tortured his lover almost to death, and now had returned to finish his work. No. It would not happen that way.  
  
"You want to attack me, don't you?" Sauron smiled, and it was grotesque to see that distorted expression on the king's features. "Go ahead. Take your lover's sword and run me through." He tossed his own weapon aside, and it came to rest largely in the water, its hilt just peeking out of the gently lapping waves. "I am defenseless, what is stopping you? Or are you as much of a coward as he is?"  
  
"No Elrond!" Gil-Galad, put out an arm to restrain him. "He knows you cannot win against him. This is his arena, his game! He knows the powers of the mind much better than you do--he has had centuries to learn them. He can call another weapon to him in an instant. Come with me and I'll return you back to the portal. You must warn the others of what is happening, tell them to listen to nothing I say!"  
  
"Yes, Elrond, listen to your king. Run away and save yourself." Sauron smiled even broader, as if genuinely amused. "But know this. If you do, he dies today. If you warn the elves of my plan, then he is of no more use to me, so why should I keep him alive? And he will die in torment and agony, let us be very clear on that."  
  
Elrond regarded with horror the very personification of evil, and suddenly it did not look to him at all like his king. The physical beauty was still there, but the radiance, the wonderful inner light that had been Gil-Galad's trademark, was missing. How could he have ever thought that this foul, diseased creature was his king?  
  
"Elrond, come with me!" Gil-Galad managed to drag him up the bank, keeping him close by his side all the while. They made it as far as the castle's main hall, seemingly unobserved by the elves who laughed and chatted about them, but then the doors leading to the library wing closed in their face as they tried to enter.  
  
"Come Elrond," Sauron called as they turned, and a sword appeared just in front of Elrond's face, hovering there although not held up by any hands. "The choice is yours. Do you betray your king, or do you fight for him? Do you run away and leave him to my tender mercies, or defend him as your honour requires?" Elrond could tell that Gil-Galad was saying something, but he could not hear it over the rushing in his ears. Sauron's words, however, echoed with a strange clarity. "Come, Elrond, think on it. If you defeat me, your lover lives with you in peace. That is what you've wanted, isn't it? What you've prayed for? I was once Annatar, the giver of gifts; consider this my gift to you--a fair chance to win. For after all, I am weak, too, in this guise, and all my battle aids and allies are far beyond my reach. You may win all you desire, if you are brave enough to take it."   
  
The sword lowered until it was actually nudging Elrond's hand, while Sauron's voice, clothed in the honeyed tones of the one Elrond loved best in all the world, went on. "Of course, you may lose, and then I will kill you, but think of how you will feel if you leave, knowing that you are betraying your lord to a certain death. Would not that be far worse than dying here, today, defending him?"   
  
Elrond's hand closed about the sword, his own promise ringing in his ears as powerfully as Sauron's words. He did not really think he could win, but he simply could not fail his king yet again. It would be physically impossible to walk away, knowing what would happen to Gil-Galad as soon as he did so. Sauron's eyes gleamed as Elrond's hand tightened about the hilt. "That's good, my little Peredhil. Now we will correct some things that went wrong in the past!"  
  
* * *  
  
TBC  
  
Amin lava, A'maelamin--I yield, my Beloved. 


	29. Chapter TwentyNine

Title: Wild Justice 29/?   
Author: Rune Dancer  
Rating: R   
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline.   
Warnings: BDSM.   
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused.   
  
* * *  
  
Elrohir looked suspiciously at Erestor. His father's chief councilor was wearing his innocent face, all big dark eyes and a sanctimonious expression, which was never a good sign. On the other hand, he did have a point. "But what if he really doesn't know? What if he just sits there and picks at his nails or something? I am not going to baby sit that . . . that traitorous son of an orc while you two face the mines alone!"  
  
"I am not suggesting that you do. But none of us wants to take the main entrance, do we? And he DOES know another way in, Elrohir, I'm convinced of it."  
  
"And yet you couldn't get him to tell you?" After the scenes he had witnessed in Lorien, Elrohir found it difficult to imagine Erestor failing to obtain any information he wanted from anyone, especially a coward liked Tuor.   
  
"I AM persuading him to tell us. There are many ways to attain your desires, Elrohir; as you grow older you will learn that not everything requires a sword. I am simply choosing a different method for this job, one that will give us the information we want faster than forcing it out of him. Not that that doesn't have a certain appeal . . . "  
  
"So you'll do it?" Glorfindel broke in. Elrohir regarded his lover thoughtfully. His blue eyes were large and hopeful, and for some reason he looked ridiculously young at the moment. Elrohir was tempted to ask him why he claimed to be in love with someone whom he obviously believed a half-wit, but refrained. It would only insure him a chance to become very well acquainted with a tree, at least until he could slip out of the layers of rope Glorfindel would use to tie him to it. As Erestor said, there were many ways of attaining one's desires.   
  
"All right, but this had better work."  
  
"It will." Erestor looked appropriately solemn, but a relieved smile broke out over Glorfindel's face. Honestly, Elrohir thought in amazement, someone really needed to give him a few lessons in deception. On the other hand, it was rather nice being able to read him so easily. Odd how love could change one's perceptions; not so long ago, Glorfindel had been as difficult for him to read as anyone else. "Just wait for us to leave, then watch him closely," Erestor continued. "As soon as he makes his move, follow him until you see where the entrance is, then come and get us."  
  
"And you'll be waiting where you said, just past the bend?"  
  
"Absolutely." Erestor's eyes never wavered, and his tone was firm. Elrohir almost smiled. He was good.  
  
"Very well, Erestor, this shouldn't take long." Elrohir managed to look sulky while happily contemplating tying Tuor to a tree as soon as the group departed, then following them at a distance. There was no way they were leaving him behind. Just because Glorfindel had somehow persuaded Lord Ulmo to resurrect him once didn't mean it would happen again, and Elrohir firmly intended to insure that it wasn't necessary. His lover had already been wounded once protecting him, and that was more than enough.  
  
The little band shouldered their weapons and disappeared over the ledge where, as Elrohir knew perfectly well, they would not wait for him at all. He did not have much time to deal with Tuor, but he needed to make sure the others were out of earshot first. Gagging Tuor would be easy enough, but the three wounded elves who remained behind would certainly cut up rough about it. Glorfindel was the idol of most young elves, be they from Imladris or no, and they had assured him with shining eyes that they would carefully watch Elrohir. He had not been able to hear their professions of loyalty, but he hadn't needed to do so--the narrowed glances they sent his way had told the tale clearly enough. Fortunately, two of them were staying behind because of leg injuries, making it unlikely that they could follow him when he ran off. The other had lost a large amount of blood from a knife wound in the stomach, and although not in any real danger, would not be performing any heroics for some time. They could still use their lungs, however, so Elrohir sat himself on a fallen tree trunk and concentrated on cleaning his sword while he counted off the seconds.   
  
It was just as he was nearing four hundred, and debating how much more of a lead he could afford to give them, when he noticed something. Tuor twitched. It wasn't an obvious movement--indeed, the other elves did not seem to have remarked on it at all--but it was definitely a twitch. Watching him as Erestor had taught him to do, without being obvious, Elrohir saw him glance repeatedly at the mouth of the cave. Now, this was a problem. Did he stick with the original plan and follow the group off to the main entrance, which they would likely reach in less than an hour, or did he stay and keep an eye on Tuor? He was virtually certain Erestor had been lying, but there was always the off chance that he hadn't, and even if he HAD, it didn't mean that he was wrong. Tuor might actually be up to something, and if so, it was only fair that Elrohir give him a chance to try his luck. Then he'd tie him to a tree and leave the others to shoot arrows at him.  
  
Having arranged things to his satisfaction, Elrohir got up and moved over to the wounded, keeping his back to Tuor, who was seated some distance away. While murmuring encouragement at the trio, checking their wounds and giving them more miruvor, Elrohir nonetheless kept his senses attuned to Tuor, whom he soon heard rise, stretch, and walk casually towards the cave as if it was a perfectly natural thing for an elf to do. Elrohir gave him a few seconds' head start, then just as casually followed him. This might prove interesting after all.  
  
* * *  
  
Celeborn collapsed on the limb of a particularly high tree, absolutely exhausted. He could never remember running so far so fast in all his life, and honestly thought he might faint. He would have liked to move to the ground, as his position sprawled along the limb was a bit precarious in his current state, but he had used the last of his strength climbing the cursed thing to begin with and didn't have the energy. He hadn't known Thranduil's crazy scheme was likely to kill him!  
  
The branch shook slightly as the Mirkwood ruler settled himself beside Celeborn's head. Celeborn wanted to make a sarcastic comment about the king's appearance, which was, infuriatingly enough, as pristine as always except for a few stray splatters of orc blood. He even had the perfect line--that he'd never before believed the reports that Mirkwood elves actually used shellac on their hair, but was revising his opinion--but unfortunately did not have the extra breath to deliver it. Elbereth, but he now knew it was possible to die from exhaustion!  
  
"Have some miruvor, Celeborn--you look awful." Thranduil tried to pass him a flask, but Celeborn weakly waved it away. Why waste a precious drink on a dying elf? "Come now, stop acting like you're half dead. It was a good run! You should get out of that conference hall of yours more often--you're getting soft!" Thranduil didn't wait for a reply, which was just as well as Celeborn's throat had almost closed up in rage, but dragged his head into his lap and poured enough miruvor down him to cause him to choke.   
  
"Would you stop that!" Celeborn sputtered and wheezed, his words largely garbled as he tried to avoid asphyxiation, but Thranduil must have understood for he let up trying to drown him.  
  
"Then sit up and look about. Isn't this perfect? My spies told me about this place long ago, but I've never had the chance to see it myself until now. Glorious!" Thranduil slapped his thigh, thankfully not the one on which Celeborn's head was pillowed, and grinned down at him. "Then again, you do look comfortable," he commented, combing his fingers through the slightly tangled silver mass that spread across his legs. From this angle he was all teeth and big green eyes, although those sensual lips were also nicely in view, especially when they unexpectedly descended on his. Celeborn shifted, wondering how many of his elves were witnessing this and might chance to mention it in his wife's hearing, then Thranduil's tongue slipped past his lips and he momentarily forgot to care.   
  
Thranduil had kissed him before, of course, on one very memorable occasion, but his memories of that night were hazy. He had felt very strange the next morning and still had half a suspicion that Elrond had drugged him, but was unable to prove anything. In any case, he had tried to put it from his mind as much as possible, as he had given his word not to require revenge, and recent events had helped by giving him numerous other things to think about. Now, however, he decided that he probably should have worried about the king's intentions, but that talented tongue gave him no chance to protest as it curled sensually around his. He told himself that he could always plead exhaustion to Galadriel.  
  
"Why did you do that?," he asked in what he hoped was a casual manner when, his lengthy exploration finally complete, Thranduil released him. Or, at least, he allowed him to breathe once more, but the big warm hand on his chest stayed where it was, insuring that Celeborn remained trapped in the king's lap.  
  
"Because I felt like it. Don't you ever do things just because you want to?"  
  
Celeborn winced. The last few times that had happened, he had ended up tied to Elrond's bed in an extremely humiliating manner, then hung suspended upside down while being molested by two drunk elf lords. He had since decided that spontaneity might not be his style. "Not usually."  
  
"Well that's your problem! You should get out more. Come to the Greenwood sometime, and I'll show you about. We'll have a grand time!" As Thranduil's hand was currently sliding down his chest in a rather obvious manner, Celeborn did not bother trying to resist a smirk. He wondering if the king had a duplicate of Erestor's infernal wheel tucked away in those extensive dungeons of his; he wouldn't put it past him. "I think we should deal with the situation at hand before planning holiday arrangements, don't you?"  
  
Thranduil sighed, and stopped his exploration. "Someone should loosen you up sometime," he muttered, taking a drink from his flask. At least, that was what Celeborn thought he heard, but when he indignantly asked him to repeat the statement, Thranduil merely smiled and agreed that they needed to get on with their mission.  
  
The two dropped to the ground a few minutes later, feeling somewhat refreshed for their brief rest and drink, but Celeborn was still unsteady on his feet. He was frankly amazed that Thranduil did not appear to be so as well, for they had covered a good thirty miles at an all out run, something that had left even the more fit elves gasping for breath. However tired they all were, they had at least accomplished their goal of reaching the obscure Pallas Pass ahead of the orcish army, which would probably not arrive until dawn at the earliest. When it did, it would get a rather large surprise, assuming that it did not change direction before then, and that the elves' strength held out for the colossal task ahead.   
  
"To work!" Thranduil rubbed his hands together in glee, seemingly unfazed by the chore to be completed. Celeborn was less sanguine, especially once he noticed the state of his tunic, which was torn, blood spattered and sweat soaked. Oh well, it would be in even worse shape by dawn, by which time he'd probably resemble and orc himself, while Thranduil would no doubt look precisely the same.   
  
The king began pointing out to the elves, who were reluctantly pulling themselves back to their feet, where to begin, making rapid calculations of the optimum points from sight alone. Celeborn stood and watched him, waiting for his heart rate to drop to something approaching normal, and was rather surprised when it didn't seem so inclined. Thranduil strode about, the sun gleaming on his golden hair, white teeth flashing as he laughed and chatted with his elves, clapping this one on the back for making a good suggestion, joking with another about the number of orcs they would obliterate in the morning, while his sharp green eyes searched the rocky hill on which they stood for the best possible vantage points. It was an impressive display, even Celeborn had to admit, but it did not explain his current blood pressure.   
  
"Thranduil, can I get your opinion on something?" He had waited for the elves to be employed some distance away before disturbing the king, who looked as if he was having a splendid time ordering everyone about. Celeborn had located a small stream, which fed into the much larger River Gladden not far away, and was attempting to wash out his clothes. He hated being dirty, as all elves did, but his current state bordered on filthy and he simply could not put up with it any longer. He had pulled off his tunic, which he did not intend to ever put on again, and his shirt, which he was scrubbing on a rock.   
  
"What is it?" Thranduil's voice came from behind him, and Celeborn smiled. Be more spontaneous, hm? Do things just because you feel like it? The king would regret giving him that advice.   
  
"Look here, what do you make of this?" Celeborn pointed out a spot in the shallows, and as soon as Thranduil leaned over for a look, he gave that firm backside a strong push. Thranduil made a good effort to maintain his balance, but toppled over after a brief struggle, landing face first in the bubbling stream. He emerged a few seconds later, dripping wet and wearing a small, wiggling fish in his hair. Celeborn couldn't help himself; he collapsed in laughter on the bank, some of the tension of the past few days evaporating as he saw the grand king of Mirkwood with his perfect coiffure plastered to his skull. "At last! I finally. . . know what it takes . . . to mess up that hair of yours," he gasped out between chuckles. Thranduil just sat there, water dripping off his nose, and waited until Celeborn's laughter ran its course.   
  
"I can think of more pleasant ways to do that," he commented softly after Celeborn had calmed down, then launched himself at him with no warning. Thranduil over came Celeborn's desperate attempts to clutch at the few patches of grass on the rocky bank, and pulled him kicking and squirming into the stream. "You are a disgrace to elvin kind, do you know that?," he demanded, dunking Celeborn under the swiftly moving waters. "I have known men who are cleaner after a day's battle! You smell like an orc." After dunking him several more times, Thranduil ruthlessly stripped him of his sodden leggings and tossed them onto the bank out of reach. "Now we will see about restoring some of that famed beauty and grace of yours, before the orcs are able to smell you ten miles away and take another route!"  
  
"Let me go, you . . . " Celeborn's demand was interrupted by another dunk and by the feeling of Thranduil's hands sliding over his body. His heart immediately sped up again, and he realised he had a problem, for the water was not nearly cold enough to prevent a rather obvious reaction to the king's ministrations, something Thranduil was not slow to notice.  
  
"Ah, what do we have here? And I thought you were tired!" The king's large hand grasped Celeborn and began sliding lowly up and down his length. The heat of his palm was magnified by the contrast with the cool water, and the possibility of being caught at any minute added a delicious frisson to the mixture.   
  
"Release me--someone will see!"  
  
"I'm glad that is your only objection!" Thranduil not only did not release him, but slid a hand around his wet buttocks to draw him closer, kneading the flesh as he went with evident enjoyment. His other hand continued its work, causing Celeborn to lose all hope of controlling his reaction. He glanced about, but no one was in view. Of course, that didn't mean anything; Thranduil's elves could move as silently as cats.  
  
"Thranduil . . . "  
  
"Oh don't worry--they are far too busy to pay attention to us, and anyway, when did you become such a prude? I heard some stories about you before your marriage that . . . "  
  
"That was a long time ago." Celeborn gasped at the combined sensation of his swollen erection being massaged skillfully in front while the king's finger slid into him from behind.   
  
"Old skills are never forgotten," Thranduil said piously, before sinking his teeth into Celeborn's earlobe. Celeborn returned the favour, biting the king's shoulder a few seconds later to keep from screaming aloud as he came and alerting everyone to what was happening. Thranduil jerked slightly in surprise. "Based on our, er, previous encounter, I didn't think you liked it rough. However, glad to oblige," he commented, before pushing Celeborn up against the bank and spreading his legs with a practised motion of his knee. His teeth nipped up Celeborn's ear to mangle the sensitive point, then dropped to attack his neck. Those big warm hands spread his buttocks easily and a second later a cool substance trickled down between them. It was soon being massaged deep within him as Thranduil's questing fingers went back to work.  
  
"Where . . . where did you get that . . . "  
  
Celeborn heard a throaty chuckle before the digits were withdrawn and replaced by a much larger, hotter intrusion. "It is actually . . . hair pomade . . . but useful . . . for so many . . . other things . . . "  
  
"So your secret is out," Celeborn managed to gasp, as he began to be pounded strongly into the dirt of the bank. So much for his bath. Oh well, he would just have gotten dirty again anyway . . .   
  
* * *  
  
TBC 


	30. Chapter Thirty

Title: Wild Justice 30/?   
Author: Rune Dancer  
Rating: R   
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline.   
Warnings: BDSM.   
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused.   
  
* * *  
  
Gildor looked in shock at the king, the sword falling unnoticed from his hand. He hardly realised it when he slowly sank to his knees, awe and wonder overcoming all other thoughts. All his life he had read about the last of the great Noldorin monarchs, heard his father sing his praises and tell, with tear filled eyes, about the days when Lindon the Great had stood strong and free, a beacon to all the elves of Middle Earth. He had also seen his pain when he spoke of the High King's fall, witnessed his pride and sorrow that he had died as might have been expected, in defense of his people. Gildor could scarcely believe what he was seeing now, but he did not doubt for an instant that it was real. The regal bearing, quiet dignity, and great beauty of the legends were all there for anyone to see. Gil-Galad lived; the great king lived! Oh how blind he must have been not to see it before! Gildor looked up at him with shining eyes--how different life might be for the elves, now that their king had returned.  
  
"Gildor!", the king addressed him again, more sternly even than before, "you have your orders--do as I command. Kill me!"  
  
Gildor felt like someone had struck him, and was grateful that he knelt as he surely would have lost his footing otherwise. The joy of the previous moment fell away and horror swept through his mind. No! This could not be happening! He surely could not mean what he said. His king could not return just to abandon them again, and in such a way. And to expect him to . . . it was madness! Gildor had never raised a hand against another elf in his life, had never even thought about doing so. He killed orcs on occasion, for what other choice did any of them have if their lives and those of their people were to be preserved? But he regretted even that, and avoided it whenever possible. Unlike some elves, he never sought out combat, but rather viewed it as a tragic necessity. And to be asked to kill one of his own, and the High King at that? It was too much. "My Lord," Gildor bowed his head humbly in submission, wondering how he dared to even think about disobeying, but his words were firm. "Ask me anything but that, even to my own life, and you shall have it, but I cannot . . . "  
  
"Of course you cannot! Gildor, get up and go help Elrond! The elf is mad--why do you listen to him?" Haldir looked confused and almost disgusted at the sight of his lover bowing at the feet of their captive. Gildor suddenly realised that Haldir did not believe the king's words. Nothing in his background had prepared him for this, so how could he? Yet surely he could hear the command in that voice, see the light in those eyes? But his lover's expression made it clear that he did not, and his eyes were not focused on the amazing sight of the High King returned, but on the combat that was still being waged behind them. Haldir's comment brought back the precariousness of Lord Elrond's position and Gildor glanced back to see him stagger and fall, his sword kicked from his hand by his opponent. By the Valar, the High King had said that was Sauron himself!  
  
Gildor watched, dumbstruck, as the creature gave a triumphant smile and placed a booted foot on Elrond's neck. His lord struggled weakly, but it was clear that his strength had been depleted and he could not thrown off Sauron's hold. "Well, it looks as if we have come to the end of this little melodrama at last, doesn't it? Are you watching, Ereinion? I want to be very certain you remember THIS, at least!" Sauron's sword came to rest on Elrond's chest, just heavily enough to lightly dent the fabric. "Now, how shall I proceed? I am open to suggestions. How would you like to see your precious Elrond die?"  
  
The High King looked at Sauron, but he addressed Gildor in a low tone; yet there was no less ring of command in it for its softness. "If you will not kill me, then have your friend release me. Now, Gildor." Gildor immediately grabbed Haldir and spun him away from the king, relieved to have an order he could obey.  
  
"What are you doing? Let me go--he'll get himself killed!" Gildor ignored his lover's words--indeed, he barely heard them--for all his attention was focused on the High King's actions. Gil-Galad did not hesitate, but ran straight at the two combatants, his blue robe billowing out behind him, no sign of a weapon in his hands. Sauron looked surprised, but had no time to act before the king was upon him. But to Gildor's amazement, Gil-Galad did not attack, but instead threw himself on Elrond. The instant he did so, the king disappeared, vanishing in a flash of blinding light and in a sound like thunder that sent a tremor around the room.   
  
Before Gildor could wonder what any of this meant, Elrond jumped back to his feet, throwing off Sauron's hold as if it was suddenly an insignificant thing. Somehow, a sword was in his hand, although Gildor knew that Sauron had kicked Elrond's weapon far out of reach, so how could he have it now? Yet somehow he did, and with powerful strokes he began forcing his opponent back toward the stairs.  
  
Gildor was suddenly thrown off balance, and he and Haldir tumbled to the floor as the room about them began quaking and shuddering as if a giant hand was shaking it from without. It felt like an earthquake Gildor had once experienced in the mountains, but how could that be? There were no such tremors in Lorien. Then the light from the overhanging chandelier started to flicker and grow dim, and the temperature dropped perceptibly.   
  
"What is happening?" Gildor could only shake his head at Haldir's question; he had no idea.  
  
"Haldir, Gildor--get out of here! Take Elwyyda with you and go!" Elrond's commands were punctuated by fierce thrusts at his opponent, who was barely managing to counter the rain of blows descending on him. It was obvious that he was seriously outmatched, but that made no sense at all. A few minutes before, he had mastered Elrond easily. What had changed?   
  
Before he and Haldir could disentangle themselves enough to comply with Elrond's command, Sauron stumbled on the stairs. He dropped his guard for a brief instant as he tried to regain his balance, and Elrond's sword ran him through. The blow was so strong that it left him momentarily pinned to the wall, an expression of disbelief and rage on his features, before he also disappeared, vanishing into a dark vapor that streamed away into nothingness.  
  
Elrond wasted no time, but turned and ran back down the stairs, using his sword to sever Elwyyda's bonds. The little dwarf looked stunned almost into unconsciousness, a feeling with which Gildor could strongly identify, but Elrond simply swept her into his arms and ran for the door. "Hurry!," he threw over his shoulder, and both Haldir and Gildor scrambled to obey. The chandelier fell at that instant, barely missing them as it shattered in a thousand sparkling pieces that scattered like ice across the floor. The whole room was shuddering violently now, and a roaring filled Gildor's ears so that he could not hear whatever Haldir was yelling at him. They both reached the door just as a terrible ripping sound spread through the room, cutting past the other deafening noises. Gildor glanced back to see the chamber behind him simply vanish into blackness.   
  
Haldir grabbed him by the arm and they pelted down the corridor after Elrond and Elwyyda, dodging falling sconces from the walls and keeping their footing as best they could in the wildly bucking hallway. Gildor did not have time to look behind him again, but a cold breeze nipped at his heels, and he was sure the corridor was vanishing behind them as the room had done.   
  
The four of them ran into the library and tore through the flimsy barrier back into the darkness beyond, Elrond making the jump with Elwyyda still clutched against him. Haldir followed him handily despite his ankle, but Gildor fell as he tried to do likewise. Shudders from the corridor were now affecting the library as well, causing it lurch from side to side like a ship in a storm, but a second later Haldir's strong arm re-emerged from the portal and dragged him through. The room beyond was not as he remembered it, but was obviously suffering from whatever calamity was happening all around them. Mirrors fell from the walls to shatter in splinters all over the floor. A heavy red mist began swirling about their feet and quickly began to rise, filling the room. The library they had just left was engulfed by strange blue flames; Gildor saw the lovely book with the painting of the two trees curl up and turn brown as fire consumed it.   
  
"Gildor! Stop daydreaming!" Elrond's words pulled him from his reverie and he felt a sting across his face as his lord struck him, hard. "You have to concentrate or you'll die! You cannot stay here." Elrond looked at the three of them, and his expression was grave. "This body is dying, and will take any souls with it who remain inside at the point of death. I will hold off the inevitable as long as I can, but you MUST get out. Concentrate on my room in Lorien, picture it clearly in your minds and see yourselves waking up."  
  
Gildor tried to do as he was told, but the raging inferno of the library was spreading to mirror after mirror; he saw beautiful gardens, sun drenched seascapes and throngs of laughing, happy elves in a ballroom, all consumed by the spreading fire that leapt easily from one mirror to the next. Then Haldir disappeared, winking out of the flickering light of the room in a flash of silver. Elwyyda followed, although less easily, her form growing dim several times just to solidify again, but finally she too faded away. "Now you, Gildor," Elrond urged him, his face pale and beaded with sweat. "I cannot hold much longer--you must go!"  
  
Gildor tried to comply, but the noise, sound, and icy flames that spread cold instead of life-giving heat, were an impossible distraction. Every time he envisioned Elrond's room, another crash nearby jolted him back. Sweet Elbereth, he thought in desperation, what if I cannot do this? Then Haldir was beside him again and he looked furious.  
  
"CONCENTRATE! Gildor--do you hear me?" Haldir grabbed him by the upper arms and shook him violently. "See only me; hear only me! Forget everything else and see us together in Elrond's room--do it now!" Gildor's vision was filled with the sight of his lover's face descending on his, and the feel of Haldir's lips pressed against his own. Suddenly, he could not hear the cacophony anymore, could not see the flames or feel their cold. As always when he kissed Haldir, the world fell away and he was surrounded, submerged, and enthralled by the warmth and beauty of the elf in his arms. The next instant everything changed.  
  
Gildor opened his eyes to a scene that almost looked surreal after the inferno he had just left. The windows were open in Elrond's rooms in the royal palace, and a light breeze blew over the bed where he and Haldir lay next to his lord and the High King. Elwydda was nearby, unsteady on her feet and clutching at the back of a chair for support. Her eyes looked huge in her little face, and she was as pale as a ghost. Gildor wanted to comfort her, but the next second he realised that Haldir was still lying motionless by his side, as were the other two.   
  
"Haldir!," Gildor shook the limp figure, but nothing happened. His lover was barely breathing, and his skin felt clammy to the touch. "Haldir?" Those beautiful features were as pale as a marble statue's, and an icy fear clutched at Gildor as seconds past yet nothing happened. "Haldir," Gildor begged, his voice breaking as tears began spilling down his cheeks, "oh, gods, Haldir, please wake up!" Gildor cradled his lover to him, horror filling him more profoundly than he had ever felt it. No! Haldir HAD to make it back, he had to! After everything they had been through, to lose him now would be worse than death. To go back to that horrible, lonely existence he had lived for so many years, without even the comfort of knowing that he could occasionally see the object of his love, would be torture beyond anything death could devise. They had so much life ahead of them; he had always thought there was so much time . . .   
  
"Haldir . . . please," Gildor whimpered, his heart feeling as if it had stopped in his chest, his breathing painful. "I swear to you, just wake up and I WILL make you happy. Oh gods, Haldir, you can have anything you want . . . " If his lover died to save him, it would be an act in vain, for Haldir had become so much a part of him that Gildor truly doubted he could live any longer without him. He would follow him to Mandos soon enough, for grief itself would kill him as surely as any orcish blade.   
  
Then the long lashes below him fluttered and the beautiful blue eyes opened. Gildor regarded his lover in shock, the relief that washed through him so profound that he could not speak. Haldir regarded him blankly. "What . . ." He managed nothing further, for Gildor was kissing him passionately, pressing him down against the soft mattress as if he would never let him up.   
  
"You're back! You came back to me!" Gildor clutched him fiercely, only releasing him when Haldir began making slight choking noises.   
  
"Where . . . what about the others?" Haldir gasped out, his hand falling on Elrond's still form. Gildor realised that Lord Elrond was not moving, and saw that his face was as bleached of colour as Haldir's had been until a moment before. A slight pulse still beat in his neck, but otherwise there was no sign of life.  
  
"Gildor, what is wrong? Why doesn't he awake? We are all here."  
  
Gildor shook his head; again, he had no answers. Then a second miracle occurred, and the chest under Haldir's hand began to rise and fall. A second later Lord Elrond's eyes fluttered open and he looked about, first at Elwydda, to whom he gave an encouraging smile, then at Haldir and finally at Gildor. Haldir did not seem to notice anything amiss, but then, he did not know Elrond very well. Gildor, however, spotted it at once. He was not shocked, for his nervous system seemed to have shut down in self-defense, and he was therefore able to contemplate the change with some equanimity. His lord had always been famed for his beautiful dark grey eyes--indeed, whole poems had been written about their beauty alone, and how they complemented his dusky grace. But, although the elf on the bed looked like Elrond in all other particulars, Gildor noticed immediately that this elves' eyes were a clear, rich blue.  
  
* * *  
  
TBC 


	31. Chapter ThirtyOne

Title: Wild Justice 31/?   
Author: Rune Dancer  
Rating: R   
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline.   
Warnings: BDSM.   
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused.   
  
* * *  
  
Gildor sat on his bed, hugging Haldir to him and trying to think. They had left Lord Elrond at his request a few moments after waking up and gone back to their room to rest. Gildor did not know about his companion, but he personally felt like he had run a marathon in the hour or so they had been . . . wherever they had been. It had all been so traumatic and had happened so fast, that he had not had time to think about it, but had simply reacted. Now, as Haldir slept quietly in his arms, Gildor rested his chin on his companion's head and slowly reviewed it all.   
  
He realised that, physically, he had never gone anywhere. When he touched Elrond in response to Elwyyda's slightly incoherent instructions, he must have formed a mental link with his lord; since the High King had been there as well, he and Elrond must have already linked before that. Gildor was distracted for a moment by the thought that he had actually been in the High King's mind--it was an honour he could scarcely believe had been afforded to him--and he tried to recall every detail of his experience. Oh, how he wished his father was still in Middle Earth, so he could tell him about it! Gildor had so often wanted to see the great city--not to mention the king himself, whom he almost felt he knew from his father's many stories--but Lindon had been just a memory by the time he was born. Of course, he realised that what he had seen this day was no more than that, but the High King' great mental abilities had been another part of his legend, so Lindon must have been very like that.   
  
Gildor pushed aside a pang of regret that he had not had the opportunity to explore a bit more, and tried to focus on the situation at hand. The High King still lived, of that he had no doubt. He knew what he had witnessed, and more importantly, that Elrond was aware that he knew. Somehow, the two greatest elves of recent history had merged into one, with the High King's soul apparently taking up residence in Elrond's body. Gildor had no idea how this was possible--he had never even heard of such a thing--but then, he had never known that what they just did was possible either.   
  
Haldir moved slightly against him and Gildor decided his lover might be more comfortable lying flat, so he gently eased out from under him and stretched him out. Haldir immediately reached for him, however, so Gildor snuggled back into his arms, careful not to disturb his rest. He smoothed the pale gold of Haldir's hair out across the pillow, grateful for any chance to touch him, to be near him. He didn't really want to think about the serious problem he was facing, but just to hold Haldir all day and make passionate love to him later. He did not so much as want to let him out of his sight after what had happened, so afraid was he still that something might happen to him. He had never known that love could make someone so vulnerable, so dependent on another's well-being. It was almost as if Haldir was an extension of himself, and anything that hurt him wounded Gildor as well.   
  
However, he knew where his duty lay, and it wasn't in indulging himself, so he reluctantly turned his thoughts back to the issue at hand. Lord Elrond and the High King had merged, that Gildor knew to be a fact. The king had very distinctive eyes, and he had seen them shining out of Lord Elrond's face; he could not have mistaken it. Which left him with a serious dilemma. He allowed himself the luxury of slowly stroking Haldir's arm, delighting in the feel of silken skin over hard muscle, as he debated his options.   
  
He could simply forget what he had seen, and allow Lord Elrond to handle it. He was Gildor's sworn liege lord, after all, with the power to command him in all things. If he had sent Gildor on a difficult assignment, even one sure to claim his life, he would have accepted it and followed his duty. Unfortunately, in this case, things were not so clear cut.  
  
What was his duty, exactly, and to whom? The Noldor, including his father, had sworn allegiance to the king for themselves and their issue for all time. Gildor was Noldorin, so did not his family's oath bind him as well? Yet he had personally sworn an oath to Elrond when entering his service. It was a difficult question, but ultimately, Gildor knew, his first loyalty lay with the king. The oath he had taken to Elrond post dated that taken by his family to the High King, and when he had sworn himself to Elrond's service, he had believed the king to be long dead. Gildor remembered seeing his parents off at the Grey Havens when they took ship for Valinor. His father had never recovered from his sorrow at the fall of the world he had helped to build and the king he had joyfully served for so long; he had had no heart to build another, nor wish to serve anyone else. Gildor knew what his father would expect of him under the circumstances, and it decided matters. He had to help the king, whatever the price.  
  
But what if he doesn't want your assistance, a little voice asked. Gildor sighed. His conscience was a bit overactive, and never left him in peace. What if he is happy with Elrond? Gildor repressed a snort of disbelief, not wanting to wake Haldir. He did not see how the king could be satisfied living as little more than a parasite within another. Sauron had deprived him so long of a real life and true freedom, it was simply not to be born that Elrond was now doing the same. But Gildor had seen it in his expression; no words had passed between them, but ideas were conveyed nonetheless. Elrond had no intention of letting the king go. His narrowed look at Gildor when he saw the shock on his face had said that as plainly as if he had shouted it. Gildor knew a warning when he saw one, but he could not heed this one.  
  
But what if he really is happy? That same voice was louder this time, more insistent. Gildor really wanted to listen to it, for going up against Lord Elrond, his sworn lord and long his kindly benefactor, not to mention one of the most powerful elves in all Middle Earth, was almost repulsive. He felt like a traitor at the very thought. In a real sense of the word, he loved Elrond. It had been at Imladris that he found a home once his parents sailed beyond the sea; it had been there that he was welcomed, not as an impoverished elf with few years and fewer skills, but as the son of a valiant warrior and an asset to the realm. Lord Elrond had been almost a surrogate father to him, providing food and clothing, training and shelter, then giving Gildor valuable assignments that brought him a measure of financial security as well as the even more valuable feeling that he was being useful. They had never been on close personal terms, for Gildor, like most elves, viewed his lord as something untouchable, distant, radiant--rather like the stars themselves--to be admired and loved and held in vast esteem. He would have died for him, but he could not do this. He could not betray the High King for him.  
  
But you really don't know what he wants, do you? His little voice piped up again. Is it a betrayal or not? What if the king WANTS to stay with Lord Elrond? Who are you to separate them, or to even think of doing so? You are vassal to both and owe your loyalty to both--why not let Lord Elrond's wisdom suffice for this? Gildor shifted uncomfortably next to his lover, and pulled Haldir a little closer to him, craving his warmth. He dearly wished he could ask his aid with this, for Haldir's level-headedness was a trait he desperately needed at the moment, but he dared not risk it.   
  
Gildor had seen the confusion in Haldir's eyes that morning, when he knelt before the king. Haldir had not understood any of what had happened, and how could he? He was Silvan, not Noldor. As much as Gildor loved him, he knew that there were certain things about himself that Haldir would never be able to understand. He would say the same as Gildor's little voice--just leave it to Elrond, it is none of our business. But it WAS his business, if the king was being trapped against his will. As much as he most sincerely wished otherwise, he was duty bound to find out.   
  
* * *  
  
Elrohir peered over the ledge into a murky chasm. Even with elvin sight, the place was dark; a human would have found it pitch black, but he could make out the basic outline of shapes moving below him. He could also hear voices, echoing eerily in the cavern's vastness, and it was all he could do not to shoot Tuor in the head. The traitorous bastard had known where the hidden entrance was all the time--he had never so much as hesitated in making straight for it. If Elrohir had not been close on his trail, he would have disappeared without a trace. As it was, Elrohir had managed to squeeze in through the narrow opening Tuor had somehow caused in the rock face just before it slammed shut behind him. Now he was witnessing the completeness of Tuor's betrayal, as he told everything to a group of orcs he had met inside--that most of the elvin army had fled, pursued by the huge orcish force, that a small band of elves was about to try to force their way into the main entrance, and that their objective was the rescue of the elvish mine slaves. Instead of killing the cowardly traitor as he deserved, however, Elrohir waited. His usual tendency to impulsiveness was not afflicting him at the moment, but something else was.  
  
It was like his dream of the previous night was returning, but this time he was awake. Elrohir knew he should have been worried that he was losing his mind, but he felt no apprehension of any kind. Instead, he was strangely calm, almost peaceful, rather as if he had fallen into a battle trance without realising it. Instead of the darkness, he saw a brilliantly sunlit day; instead of the bleak interiors of the cave, he saw a grassy plain and a magnificent elf on a pale horse next to his own. Behind them spread a huge elvish army, colourful banners waving cheerily in the breeze.  
  
** "You are looking worried, lirimaer. What troubles you?"  
  
Glorfindel turned to face him, his concern briefly masked by an unconvincing grin. "Nothing. I relish the thought of destroying Morgoth's forces. As you said, they will rue the day they heard the name of Beleriand!"  
  
Elrohir hid a smile; apparently, guile had never been his lover's forte. "True, King Fingolfin has an excellent plan. Do not worry, young one, we will be triumphant, I promise you!"   
  
Glorfindel did not look much relieved at this assurance, however, and Elrohir worried about him. He was so young to be facing a trial of this magnitude, which could make even the most experienced of elves tremble. He wished he knew what to say to take his lover's doubts away, but then, perhaps he was better off to be somewhat timid. Overconfidence had killed many an elf by causing them to become careless in battle. Elrohir, of course, intended to insure that Glorfindel never left his sight. He would watch over him and make certain he came through the coming contest alive.**  
  
"Where are the slaves? I will guard them while you deal with the attacking party." Tuor's voice brought Elrohir back to the present with a jolt. He shook his head to clear the image. Elbereth, but it had seemed so real, almost as if he had actually been there! .   
  
"Zurgug will take you to them. We will deal with the others." A huge orc answered Tuor's question, his coarse syllables causing Elrohir to wince and wish to bury a knife in his throat. Instead he continued to wait and watch, as Tuor was led downward into the darkness by a hunchbacked orc with a tiny lantern, while the three larger orcs in the party started up the narrow, rocky incline towards him. Elrohir waited until they were almost level with his hiding place in the shadows of an overhang, then tripped the one who had spoken to Tuor into the ravine. His cries had not even died away before the other two, now headless corpses, followed him. Elrohir watched them fall with considerable satisfaction, but then he paused. Where to go now?  
  
His day dream had no doubt been the result of his mind trying to persuade him that revenge on Tuor, however good that might feel, or even recovery of the lost elves, was not his primary objective. He had to insure the well being of Glorfindel and the others, who would doubtless soon arrive at the cave's entrance. Yet he had just insured that the orcs would not receive prior warning of their arrival and could not lay an ambush, so did his duty not now lie with the enslaved elves? They were the reason they had come so far and risked so much; could he abandon them now for the selfish reason of guarding his lover's life?   
  
He looked down into the passage where Tuor and his guide had disappeared. These caves were a rabbit warren of intersecting passages; if he let them get away, he might never find them again. On the other hand, if he snuck up behind the guards at the entrance, there was a good chance he could clear the way for his party and then they could search together. The decision he reached after several agonizing seconds was largely the result of his belated realisation that he should have kept at least one of the orcs alive to lead him to the entrance. He had no real idea how to get there otherwise, so he supposed following Tuor was the only real option.  
  
Elrohir moved quickly once his mind was made up, pausing only when he heard the orc's heavy footfalls change direction or slow down. It seemed like he followed the two of them for hours on a winding path down into darkness so extreme that even his elvin eyes had difficulty discerning anything. The air felt stale and musty this far into the earth, and Elrohir had to concentrate to insure that his breathing did not become laboured and give him away. With only the dim light of the far away lantern to guide him, he also had to use all his senses to avoid scraping against one of the narrow passage's walls and alerting Tuor to his presence. Finally, the tiny pinpoint of light from the orc's lantern stopped, and Elrohir strained to hear what the creature was saying to his companion.   
  
"This is the lot. We grouped them all in here in case of an attack--the master knew your friends wouldn't give up so easily. But the elves will never find them--even most of our people don't know of this place."  
  
"You are sure this is all of them?" Tuor seemed strangely excited about something, but Elrohir could not imagine what it could be.  
  
"Yes, like I told you. There was one other, but he escaped a few weeks back. Just make sure nothing happens to this bunch--they're the master's favourite pets!" Elrohir's hand tightened on his sword as the ugly creature cackled with glee and savagely kicked a nearby elf. Then he hung the lantern on the wall for Tuor and starting back in Elrohir's direction. The light outlined his body perfectly as he shuffled forward, and Elrohir smiled into the darkness. A few seconds later, and he stuffed the now dead orc into a crevasse in the wall before moving silently forward.   
  
Tuor had picked up the lantern and was examining the elves one by one, pushing the light into their faces although they shied back from it in confusion. It had probably been so long since they had a source of illumination that close to them that it hurt their eyes, but none of the small group of twenty or so made a protest. "Is any of you Oropher, King of Greenwood?" Tuor's voice sounded excited and apprehensive, all at the same time. "I am Tuor, consort to your son Thranduil, and have come to free you!"  
  
When none of the elves responded to Tuor's rather pompous declaration, he began to grow agitated. "Come, I know you're here somewhere! They never found your body at Barad-dur--you must be here!" He dragged one elf up by the hair, pulling out some of the delicate strands as he did so, and causing the heavy chains the elf wore to slap one of the others full in the face. "Your son is worried about you--do you not want to comfort him? I know you probably bear little resemblance to him by now, but I WILL find you." Tuor pushed the elf away after carefully examining his face, and the fragile creature knocked heavily against the wall, letting out a small cry.   
  
"Curse it, where are you?" Tuor looked about almost frantically, shoving the lantern into face after face. "Thranduil will love me forever if I find you. You must be here--why are you hiding?" He grabbed another elf by the few tattered garments it wore, and hauled it upright. "No, not you," he muttered. "Thranduil inherited his green eyes from his father, I always heard said." His voice grew dreamy and a strange smile came over his lips. "Like emeralds in sunlight, like the deepest depths in a spring of clear water . . . ," he suddenly snapped back from his reverie and shook the helpless elf in his hands. "Where is he? Tell me or I swear I'll kill you all!"  
  
"Oh, I don't think so." Elrohir emerged from the shadows, his sword glinting slightly in the shuddering light from Tuor's wildly swinging lantern. "I, however, will take great pleasure in ending your miserable life."   
  
Tuor looked at him in shock, some of the crazed light going out of his eyes. "Elrohir! What . . . I thought you were tending to the wounded."  
  
"I'm more interested in preventing even more elves from suffering because of your selfish lust, Tuor. Put him down and draw your weapon; I give you that much. I could have shot you from the shadows and you would never have known what hit you, but I prefer to see an elf die with a weapon in his hands. Even an elf like you."  
  
Tuor sneered, and drew the elf in his arms even more securely in front of him. "I'm not that much of a fool! I saw you fight today, and I prefer another solution." He put a dagger to the elf's throat, so tightly that a small trickle of blood ran onto his hand. "Put down your sword or this one dies."  
  
"What if he is your precious Oropher? Wouldn't that ruin your plans?"  
  
"He isn't, or are you blind as well as foolish? His eyes are grey."   
  
Elrohir could not tell one way or the other in the darkness, but he supposed Tuor should know. "So his life doesn't matter?"  
  
Tuor smiled. "To you, it probably does. That's your weakness--the same as all the elves! You spend your life protecting the weak and helpless, when they are only a drag on our race! WE could dominate Middle earth if only we had a few leaders with foresight and cunning, and the will to lead us! Instead, dwarves and men and other piddling races are allowed to spread ever more insidiously across our lands, while we shrink in numbers every century. Only our enemies have the intelligence to know what life is really about--taking what you want and forcing others to bend to your will!"  
  
"And that is what you are doing? Bending Thranduil to your will by bribing him with his father's life? Do you really think he will be fooled? That Oropher, if he is here, will not tell him what you did and why?"  
  
Tuor looked uncertain for a moment, then he smiled once more. "They have been so damaged that I doubt most of them have enough of a mind left to understand anything. I will tell the king how I, at the risk of my own life, rescued his father from terrible imprisonment, while you and your gallant party were butchered by orcs as you tried to assist me. You will be remembered in stories and song, Elrohir, as will that ridiculous popinjay Glorfindel, but I will be alive and it is to me Thranduil will turn soon enough."  
  
Elrohir shook his head; Tuor really WAS mad, there was no doubt about it. Either that, or just evil, and Elrohir vastly preferred to think of him as mad. In any case, he had to be dealt with--there was now no other option. The question was, how to do it and not risk the life of the elf he was using as a shield. Then Elrohir saw it, a withered arm that was waving to him energetically from behind Tuor's head. It looked oddly disembodied, as Elrohir could not see to whom it belonged in the dim lantern light. He did not stop to think, for there was no time, but merely pulled a knife from his belt and tossed it over Tuor's head, still sheathed in its scabbard for safety's sake. The waving arm caught it and disappeared into the throng.  
  
"What was that? What did you just do?" The lantern light so close to his face was making it difficult for Tuor to see much beyond it, Elrohir supposed. He never had the chance to answer him, as the next second the elves fell on Tuor, uttering hoarse battle cries and wrenching their fellow prisoner from his arms. The traitor disappeared under a pile of ragged clothes and flailing, dirty limbs, his surprised shout soon muffled by their bodies. Elrohir kept an eye on the pile, to make certain Tuor did not manage to escape, but otherwise did not interfere. Instead, he moved to examine the skeletal elf who had been thrown against the wall earlier, where he still lay bleeding from the head.   
  
Elrohir poured as much healing energy as he dared into him, not wanting to risk harming the fragile body any further, and a moment later the elf's eyes opened. He looked familiar, although Elrohir could not say why. "By the Valar!," the elf murmured, his tone awe struck as his eyes devoured Elrohir's face, "I always said you would come for us! The others thought me mad, but I always knew." Claw like hands clutched at his shirt, and a small smile broke out over the elf's haggard features. "I knew it."  
  
"Yes, we'll get you out of here. But tell me, friend, are there any more like you in the mines?" Elrohir had no intention of taking the word of an orc that they had assembled all the elves together. Perhaps these poor souls might know where their fellow prisoners were, if any still lived.  
  
The elf looked confused. "Do you not recognise me, Lord? But of course," he sighed, and looked suddenly ashamed. "I must look horrible to you. My apologies. I promise to return myself to a more proper appearance before once more taking up my duties."  
  
"Your duties?" Elrohir was confused. Of course, he reasoned, the elf was probably even more so and doubtless did not know what he was saying. It hurt his heart to see his people in this condition, and a low rage burned his stomach, crying for revenge.  
  
"Oh please, my Lord, never say I cannot serve you again! I will do anything--the most humble task will be an honour, I assure you!"  
  
The elf looked so distressed that Elrohir could only hug him, ignoring his stench as best he could, and murmur reassurances. "Of course you can serve me if you wish. There is room for anyone who wishes to come with me to Imladris. But tell me your name, friend, that I may call you correctly."  
  
"I am Lothion, my Lord." The poor elf's eyes flooded over with tears, but Elrohir barely noticed. Lothion . . . why was that name so strangely familiar? "See, I told you so!" His new servant cried out to his fellows, as the elves in the pile slowly withdrew themselves from Tuor's remains. Elrohir looked at the mangled body and knew he should feel some sorrow, some pity, for the creature, but he could not manage even the slightest twinge of either. Indeed, he felt like joining in the cries of triumph from the surrounding elves that echoed off the walls of the little cave like the voices of an army.   
  
"I told you he would come for us! Did I not say as much? Lord Ulmo will not forget us, he will send our champion back to us! Did I not say so?"  
  
"That you did, Lothion, every day for centuries." The elf Tuor had used as a shield approached Elrohir and looked at him searchingly for a moment. Elrohir idly noticed that Tuor had been wrong; this elf's eyes were most definitely green. Then the battered body folded and he knelt at Elrohir's feet. "My Lord Ecthelion," he said in a strangely choked voice, "we are yours to command."  
  
* * *  
  
TBC 


	32. Chapter ThirtyTwo

Title: Wild Justice 32/?   
Author: Rune Dancer  
Rating: R   
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline.   
Warnings: BDSM.   
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused.   
  
* * *  
  
Elrond swirled his wine about in his glass and smiled at it. Lately, he had been smiling at everything--walls, light fixtures, the vase of roses in his chambers--he almost felt like he could smile at an orc, should one happen by. For the first time in years, he actually felt at peace. There were no more ghosts haunting his dreams, no more restlessness, no more guilt. He could not recall the last time he had felt this light--it was almost like intoxication, only much, much better.  
  
"You look happy."  
  
Elrond looked up at Gil-Galad, seated in a comfortable chair near his own, and his smile grew even wider. They were back in Lindon, of course--they would always be in Lindon now, and it would never fade, but be forever as beautiful and tranquil as he remembered it. They sat in his old bedchamber, which they had decided to use communally as there were no longer any nosy servants to fool or bothersome courtiers to evade. Delicious freedom! Elrond couldn't help it, he burst out laughing. "I was just thinking how many times I had to stuff myself into that cursed wardrobe in your chambers, when someone came by unannounced. Remember Titton dropping in and spending three quarters of an hour droning on about suspected tax evasion by the sheepherders in the southern reaches? My foot went to sleep and I almost did, too, waiting for him to finish. I can just picture his face if I had tumbled out of your wardrobe and landed nude at his feet!"  
  
"He probably wouldn't have noticed; he did tend to be very focused when making a report."  
  
Elrond chuckled. "He must have been drinking! Even Titton knew better than to intrude at eleven at night for such a trivial reason . . . " He stopped at the king's abashed expression. "You never told me! Stuffy old Titton was . . . enamored with you?"  
  
"I suppose that is one way of putting it." Gil-Galad smiled and shrugged. "You never liked him, but the two of you were important councilors and needed to work together. Yes, Elrond," he held up a hand, "I know he could be a terrible bore at times, but he was also meticulous with his reports and one of the best record keepers I ever knew. Everyone always praised my memory, but in reality it was very rarely called upon. Titton was always there with any information I needed in short order, even something going back hundreds of years. He was invaluable that way. I did not want the two of you to be at odds any more than you already were, so I didn't mention his occasional . . . advances."  
  
"Advances!" Elrond shook his head in disbelief. The idea of stodgy old Titton making an advance on anyone, much less the High King, was truly absurd. Still, it did bring up an interesting question. "When he helped to arrange your marriage, did he know . . . ?"  
  
Gil-Galad shrugged. "I never asked him, but I would assume so. He was never the most observant of elves, although he could spot a scroll out of place in the library in the blink of an eye. But he must have wondered why I continually spurned him. It could have been a subtle form of revenge, I suppose; the idea did occur to me at the time."  
  
"But you said nothing."  
  
The king smiled and let his fingers intertwine with Elrond's. "That was always the difference between us. You wanted to know the why of everything. But no one can keep track of all that goes on, especially in other people's minds. It is too tiring to even try."  
  
"You are so serene." Elrond felt the old soothing calm pour from their linked hands and spread throughout him. He did not know how he had survived so long without it.   
  
"Of course. I could afford to be. I had you to do my worrying for me!"   
  
"But there is nothing to worry about any more. For us, there never will be again."  
  
The king kissed Elrond's hand briefly and let it go. "Except the small matter of my funeral tomorrow. It will be an interesting experience to attend. I had always expected to be there, but not consciously so!"  
  
Elrond felt his smile fade slightly and he unconsciously gripped the king's hand again. "I could make an excuse not to attend. I don't want you to feel . . ."  
  
"It will not bother me, Elrond! After my time with Sauron, I would have looked on death as a blessed release, I assure you. But you have saved me even from that eventuality." He drew Elrond to his feet and kissed him lightly. "I am glad you are not angry with me for what I did. Most people would have felt it to be a terrible invasion of privacy."  
  
Elrond stroked fingers down the king's back, marveling at how solid, how real, he felt in his arms. "Having you with me like this is pure bliss. I would not have had you act otherwise, you know that."  
  
The king smiled, and drew him toward the bed. "I did not have time to ask your permission, so I am relieved you feel that way." He pulled Elrond close and gently smoothed his lover's hair. "But something worries you--I can tell. You cannot hide things from me now, you know."  
  
Elrond allowed himself to be divested of his night robe as he tried to think how to phrase his reply. Now that they were joined, Gil-Galad could have simply read his thoughts had he wished to do so, yet Elrond knew the king would never take that liberty without permission. He smiled as his lover began kissing his way down his chest. Such an intrusive action would not even occur to the king, a fact that never ceased to amaze him. Elrond could, and usually did, resist temptation, but his lord did not need such self-control; Gil-Galad simply had the purest soul he had ever known. How to tell him that he felt unworthy to bear it? That he might somehow taint the king by his sometimes foolish or ignoble thoughts? He put off that conversation, and instead admitted to a smaller concern. "Gildor knows."  
  
"Yes, I saw that on his face, too. The dear child is not good at hiding his feelings, is he?"   
Elrond was having trouble keeping up with the conversation, as the king's head continued downward. He had had many lovers in the years since he lost Gil-Galad, but none had even come close to taking his place. Being back with him again was breathtaking, exhilarating and completely satisfying. Elrond didn't care if he never woke up.  
  
Elrond pushed the problem from his mind; after all, what could Gildor do? "We'll worry about him tomorrow." His smile returned at the thought that, from now on, everything they did would be "we."  
  
* * *   
  
Elrohir looked at the kneeling figure before him and tried to say something in response to the elf's absurd declaration, but nothing came out. He closed his mouth so that he would no longer be gaping like a fish, and swallowed, feeling dizzy. Ok, he thought, pull yourself together, Elrohir. Deep in a mine filled with orcs is hardly the place to fall apart. Get them out of here, find Glorfindel and the others, and THEN you can have a nice nervous breakdown all by yourself. No, DON'T think about Erestor's crazy comments; don't think at all, just get them out!  
  
Elrohir cleared his throat and tried again. "We have to get out of here, before anyone comes to check on you. Do any of you know the way back?" Elrohir had tried to keep track of the winding turns himself, but he really hoped one of them had a better idea of the way to the exit than he did.   
  
"I do." The elf at his feet looked up, and despite the emaciated appearance and general filthiness of his attire, there was something reassuring about him. He did look as if he knew what he was talking about. "I tried to escape once, long ago, and almost made it before they caught me. But first we must be released from these." He held up a manacled arm, which had a large, heavy looking chain attached to it. His shackles were clipped to those of the elf nearest him, whose chains were in turn fastened to the elf beside him and so on. Many of them also wore heavy iron bands about their bony necks, which looked horribly painful to Elrohir.   
  
"Hold still," he told the kneeling elf, and rummaged around in his tunic until he found one of Erestor's skeleton keys. He had liberated it from the chatelaine's huge key ring a year ago, needing to move about Imladris at night without running into all sorts of barriers. Erestor had a fetish about locking things up; even the baths in Elrohir's wing of the palace were routinely closed after midnight, once the security guards made their final rounds. That had never made any sense to Elrohir--what in Arda did Erestor expect to go missing from the bath chambers, a marble sink perhaps? But the key allowed him easy access without having to explain why he needed to bathe in the middle of the night. He only hoped it would work here, as he doubted his sword or knives would be much use against solid iron. "There, that's done it. Now you." Elrohir motioned the next elf closer after Erestor's key worked its magic on the first one's chains, and soon they were all rubbing their wrists and necks gratefully.  
  
"All right. Which way?' Elrohir turned back to the first elf, who was regarding him with a tentative look. "You did say you knew the way out."   
  
"Yes, my lord, I believe I do." The elf hesitated, and Elrohir grew impatient.   
  
"Well, go ahead, lead us out of here."   
  
"Very well, this way," the elf moved towards the passage, and the others followed him unquestioningly, but Elrohir noticed that he kept glancing back with a worried frown on his face. Normally, Elrohir would have asked what was wrong, but at the moment, he really didn't think he wanted to know. There was a pressure building in his neck and the base of his skull, like a headache waiting to erupt, and it became worse every time he even thought about letting any of his many questions batter their way to the front of his mind. He squashed them down, and when he saw a familiar sunlit day shining to him from the end of a corridor, he resolutely looked in the other direction. You are far underground, he reminded himself, and it is just an illusion, a trick of the mind. He was NOT going to start hallucinating again, not now at any rate. Whatever was wrong with him would just have to wait until he could get back to Lorien and see Ada. Suddenly, he very much wished his father were with him.  
  
The elf did seem to know where he was going, however, and easily led them through the tunnels without hardly a pause to reorient himself. Elrohir was so caught up in his thoughts that he did not notice anything wrong until they passed through a large cavern with a pool in the centre that reflected hanging stalactites in the still water, making it look rather like a gaping mouth when seen from the ledge above.   
  
"Wait." Elrohir grabbed the elf's arm, preventing him from moving forward any further. "I know I didn't come this way. I think you're lost."  
  
"No," the elf struggled in his grip, "this is the way out. I promise you!"  
  
"No, it isn't. You're confused."  
  
"I think we should listen to Lord Ecthelion." Lothion piped up from behind Elrohir, and was seconded by several other elves.   
  
"Don't call me that." Elrohir sighed. He didn't have time for this right now. "Let's just go back and see where we made a wrong turn. It can't be that difficult to find the right way." He only hoped his words were true, although he no longer had any real idea where they were. He shouldn't have let someone else lead, so it was partially his fault. That's what came of daydreaming, but the cursed images filling his brain were becoming harder and harder to ignore.  
  
The elf who had been leading them suddenly collapsed at Elrohir's feet, sobbing wildly. Elrohir looked at him with incomprehension for an instant--what was wrong now? Great, he had let a mentally unstable elf guide them and now the creature was lost and so were they. Elbereth help us, he thought fervently; it was only a matter of time before the orcs found them, and they had only his and Tuor's weapons for the whole group. Not that any of them looked much able to fight anyway.   
  
"I . . . I am sorry, my lord, I should have told you! But I can't just leave him, and I thought you might say no!"  
  
Elrohir sighed. He was absolutely certain he didn't want to hear this. Why was nothing EVER simple? "Leave who?"   
  
"The elf that . . . other one . . . was asking about. My liege lord and cousin, King Oropher."  
  
"King Oropher?" Elrohir's mind reeled. But surely that was just a fantasy of Tuor's diseased brain? Certainly Oropher himself could not be here, could he?   
  
"I know we need to escape, lord, but I am sworn to protect him, and I failed. I let him be taken at Barad-dur, and now I MUST help him! I will not leave without him!"  
  
What followed was a cacophony of questions, comments and loud complaints from the other elves, many of whom were Sindar and had apparently not been told that their king was a prisoner. Elrohir eventually managed to calm them down, even though he personally agreed with most of their pointed comments towards the elf at his feet, who was called Amras. "He made me swear not to tell you," Amras cried, cowering and looking fearfully behind him at the enraged elves. "He thought it would only add to your torture, if you knew your king was here also!"  
  
"All right, enough!" Elrohir dragged him back to his feet and glowered at all of them. "Do you know the way out--and don't lie to me!"   
  
"Y-yes, lord."  
  
"Then take these others and lead them to safety. You will find three elves just beyond the cave entrance, if you go out the way I described to you. They have food and water and will aid you. Stay with them and stay out of sight. I will find Oropher and bring him out with me."  
  
There was, of course, a great deal of argument about this, but Elrohir's somewhat unkind comments that the elves could be of little use to him in their current state eventually persuaded them, and they agreed to do as he asked. He spent a few minutes questioning Amras about the probable location of the king, then equipped him with Tuor's weapons and watched him lead the others back up the corridor. He leaned against the cave wall and tried to concentrate on the receding sound of their light footfalls and nothing else. He wouldn't put it past Amras, who had looked a bit crazed when Elrohir demanded that he leave Oropher's rescue to him, to double back and attempt to help with the liberation of his lord. In the elf's current state, that would be tantamount to suicide.   
  
Elrohir tried not to think of how bleak his own situation was at the moment, alone, surrounded by a merciless enemy who could discover him at any time, and probably more mentally unstable than Amras would ever be. As if in response to his thoughts, a sudden portal opened in the dark cavern, spilling light everywhere and showing a scene that he remembered from his history books, but which could not possibly be real. Yes, he thought, as another time engulfed him, you are definitely barking mad, old son.   
  
*** All around him, people screamed and ran. A fruit vendor had his stall upset by the frantic crowd as he was trying to stuff as much of his wares as possible into baskets draped over the back of a mule, and apples and pears scattered everywhere, tripping people up and adding to the general chaos. A plump elf-wife, her arms full of hastily thrown together bundles, careened into him after tripping over the scattered fruit, and Elrohir barely managed to keep her on her feet. After sending her on her way, he grabbed the back of the vendor's collar and shouted into his ear.  
  
"Get out of here! Leave your fruit--are a few baskets of apples worth your life? Just go, while you still can!" The elf looked at him wildly for a second, then stumbled off into the teeming throng, pulling his loudly braying mule behind him.   
  
"Lord Ecthelion, the North Gate is under assault!" A young elf from Glorfindel's house skidded to a stop in front of him. Elrohir knew his face, but the elf's name eluded him.   
  
"Where is your lord; why is he not helping to reinforce the gate?"  
  
"I do not know, lord. The last time I saw him, he bade me help look for the princess. The king has charged him with getting her away safely, but she was not in her palace rooms."  
  
Elrohir nodded. "Obey your lord; I will see to the gate." As the elf ran off, his white and gold uniform bright despite the drifts of smoke clouding the scene, Elrohir breathed a sigh of relief. Yes, Glorfindel, he thought as he began rounding up his elves and turning the chaos into something resembling an organised defense, get the princess out. For if you are leading her away from the city, that means you will be safe also. Having learned that his lover would soon be well away from the burning city and free from danger, Elrohir turned his mind completely on making their enemies pay a dear price for the taking of Gondolin.**  
  
Elrohir clutched the wall behind him and panted, desperately wanting to scream but not daring to make a sound. Several orcs had entered the caves, but had not yet seen him. Their coarse voices had broken him out of whatever trance he had fallen into, however, and for that he was almost grateful to them. Slipping silently behind a large stalagmite, he waited for them to pass through, scarcely even breathing. They were obviously unaware of trouble, for neither seemed to be making attempts to avoid detection. That could be either good or bad, Elrohir thought. It meant that, on the one hand, the elves he had freed had probably not been discovered yet, for certainly a general alarm would have been sounded if they were. On the other hand, however, it also meant that Glorfindel's team must not have assaulted the cave entrance yet, or else, if they had . . .  
  
Elrohir bit back worry over his lover's fate and tried to concentrate. He could not help Glorfindel at the moment, any more than he had been able to do . . . he clamped down on that thought hard and forced it into the back of his mind. He had NOT been at the fall of Gondolin. He had not even been BORN then! He was not going to give in to madness and ruin this mission. He slapped himself hard across the face, and felt a little better. Get a grip, Elrohir, and do your duty. Find Oropher. Get him out. Then find Glorfindel and the others and do the same. Kill any orcs in your path, but do it silently. Do NOT daydream, hallucinate, or whatever you've been doing lately. Having arranged his schedule, Elrohir lurched out from his hiding place, the orcs having had sufficient head start in front of him. Just follow the plan, he told himself as he slipped into another corridor, and try to stay sane!  
  
TBC 


	33. Chapter ThirtyThree

Title: Wild Justice 33/?   
Author: Rune Dancer  
Rating: R   
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline.   
Warnings: BDSM.   
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused.   
  
* * *  
  
Elrohir knocked his head against the side of the cave wall, relishing the brief burst of pain that drove the images from his mind, at least momentarily. For someone who always made elaborate plans and thought things out ahead of time, he was being remarkably lackadaisical, some saner part of his mind informed him. Instead of devising a complex scheme to liberate Oropher, he was having difficulty just keeping his stumbling feet going in the direction Amras had said would lead to him. He hadn't encountered any more orcs, which was fortunate as he was no longer bothering to conceal himself. It seemed too trivial to worry about when the dreams were assaulting him so mercilessly.   
  
Each step he took seemed to bring another wave of past thoughts, sights, sounds and emotions flooding over him. The tunnel down which he was traveling seemed to be composed not of stone, but of scene after scene from some other time, all as clear as if they were happening in the present. He dared not look too long at any one, in case the dreams enfold him and he forget entirely where he was, but it was a great temptation. To his left, a glittering parade wound its way up a steep hill towards a shimmering jewel of a city gleaming bright under a summer sun. To his right, a battlefield was strewn with hundreds of bodies, looking as if a great cataclysm had taken place, yet in the foreground of the scene he and Glorfindel were embracing, obviously wildly happy. Elrohir kept his eyes ahead, but it did no good; the dreams were clever, it seemed, and as he rounded a corner, one leapt out at him, drawing him in despite his attempts to fight it off.  
  
**The scene was a military camp, that much was obvious. Elvish tents littered a grassy plain that looked rather torn up. Several large bonfires burned along the horizon, and somehow Elrohir knew they were consuming corpses from the day's battle. He shuddered and turned away from the sight, searching his mind to determine which war this was and how many elves had died in it. Then the tent flap in front of him was thrown back and Glorfindel looked out.   
  
"Is that for me?"  
  
Elrohir was confused until he noticed the bottle in his hand, around which someone had wrapped a lopsided bow made out of what looked to be part of a torn banner. "Er, yes. That is, I thought . . . a celebration?"  
  
He felt strangely shy, looking into the large blue eyes of his companion, which were gazing at him searchingly. "The day went well, but we'll have another fight on our hands tomorrow."  
  
Elrohir had no idea if this was a refusal or not, so he stood there, feeling a bit foolish and wondering why he didn't just walk away. There were others who would like to spend the evening with him--he remembered now that he had barely managed to tear himself away from a boisterous victory party going on in his own tent. It had been started by several of his elves who had dropped by to present him with the sword of the orc commander he had slain. They had lingered, euphoric after their total victory, and soon their friends came looking for them. Then others heard the sounds of laughter and merriment and hurried over with bottles in their hands. Elrohir had quickly tired of being asked to recount over and over the story of his duel with the orc captain, and gave up all hopes of getting any sleep. He waited until the crowd was so large that it was unlikely they would notice the absence of one elf, even the tent's owner, then he slipped out, fashioning his own make-shift present on the way. Which it now seemed might not be needed.  
  
"I . . . well, I should be going. I just wanted to drop this off and, er, congratulate you. You fought well, Glorfindel." Elrohir turned away, not relishing the thought of returning to his crowded, noisy tent, when a hand was placed on his arm. Turning back, he saw Glorfindel biting his lip and regarding him out of uncertain eyes.   
  
"You can stay if you like. After all, it doesn't really mean anything, does it?"  
  
At Elrohir's startled expression, Glorfindel actually blushed and looked even more flustered. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean that the way it sounded."  
  
Elrohir wondered what else, exactly, he could have meant, but he followed him into the large tent that Glorfindel's status as family leader afforded him. It was almost as luxuriously furnished as his own, if more plainly. Yet Elrohir liked the subtle blues, greys and dark golds, and the overall understated elegance of the decor; it wasn't his style, but it suited Glorfindel, allowing his blond beauty to be the focus of attention. Of course, he would have been so for Elrohir anyway, who admired him as he moved gracefully about, pouring the wine and assembling a quick meal of fruit, cheese and bread. The latter was a bit stale, but Elrohir didn't mind. Food was not his interest.  
  
Glorfindel sat, a little awkwardly, on the camp chair opposite him, leaning elbows on the small table like an elfling ignoring his elder's lectures on proper posture. His blond hair fell about his face and his huge eyes were black in the dim light from the overhanging lantern. He looked terribly young and unsure of himself, and suddenly Elrohir wished he was back in his own tent. He had not intended for this to turn into a serious discussion, but had just wanted a . . . well, a celebration. They had survived the day, after all, and looked likely to survive the war. True, there would be more fighting on the morrow, and probably for another week or more after that, but today's battle had decided things. The rest was merely a mopping up operation, which should go well if they kept their heads. Wasn't that worth celebrating?   
  
Yet Glorfindel seemed strangely somber, and Elrohir wondered why. Of course, he had slain a large number of orcs that day, possibly, Elrohir realised, for the first time. If he had never killed before it would explain his somewhat despondent expression, so out of place in a camp where everyone else was making merry. Elrohir wanted to say something to lighten the mood, but had trouble finding the right words. "It, er, it is more difficult, the first time."   
  
"Really?" Glorfindel looked interested, so Elrohir struggled to continue, wanting to bring him out of his melancholy. He thought about his own first kills, but could not remember spending any time mourning the orcs in question or being distressed over their deaths. Of course, in his case, it had been somewhat more personal. A small party of the creatures had seen an elf traveling alone and thought he would make good prey; they had soon found out their mistake, and Elrohir had kept both his gold and his head. He could remember feeling pride that he had been able to apply his father's lessons so well in actual experience, and relief that no other travelers would be molested, at least not by that particular party. But no, he could not recall even a moment of sadness. "The pain will pass, in time," he said, trying to offer what comfort he could.  
  
"It was not particularly painful," Glorfindel commented thoughtfully. "Actually, I quite enjoyed it. Didn't you?"  
  
Elrohir drank some wine and wondered what to say to that. All right, yes, he supposed that there was a certain rush that came with combat, although he did not know if it was exactly enjoyable. Still, perhaps Glorfindel was referring to his relief that he had led his elves so well. For an untried commander, he had evidenced skill, grace under pressure and overall showed great promise. "I . . . don't think enjoy is quite the word I would use. I suppose it was . . . satisfying."  
  
Elrohir wondered at the rather confused glance Glorfindel gave him then, and at the sudden clasping of his companion's hands on the table, tightly enough to leach the colour from his knuckles. "You . . . found it satisfying," he repeated, as if he did not know quite what to make of that statement.   
  
"Of course. It is always rewarding to feel that a difficult task has been finished satisfactorily."  
  
Glorfindel looked at him with something like dismay coming into his beautiful eyes. "D-difficult? Finished?" He stood so abruptly that he overturned his chair and did not even appear to have noticed. "I see."  
  
Elrohir sighed to himself and put down his glass. He had obviously said something to distress his young companion, but he could not imagine what it could have been. But then, giving comfort had never been his strong suit. He rose and came up behind Glorfindel, wondering if he should put his arms about him or make some other gesture, but he hesitated; so far, his attempts to cheer up the handsome elf had apparently had the opposite effect. "You seem upset, lirimaer. Did I say something wrong?"  
  
"Oh no. You said exactly what I expected." Glorfindel would not turn to face him, but Elrohir now knew that something was seriously wrong. His companion's voice shook almost as if . . . but no. Why would he be that upset? They had won, hadn't they?  
  
"It is natural to be a little . . . emotional . . . after your first time, but that will pass." Elrohir gave into temptation and pulled the slightly heaving body back against him, wrapping his arms securely about Glorfindel's waist. "I won't lie to you. It will never become entirely easy, but the distress you are feeling will grow less, I promise." Elrohir felt slightly ashamed of himself; here he was, supposed to be concentrating on helping his young lover through a difficult emotional experience, and all he could think about was how good, how warm, how perfect he felt in his arms. "You should feel proud of yourself," he whispered into Glorfindel's ear, thinking that some praise might be helpful. "I've told everyone I met about your skill."  
  
Glorfindel spun around abruptly, his red-rimmed eyes suddenly flashing fire. "You did WHAT?" Elrohir stepped back slightly, wondering if his lover was feeling all right. Why would he object to having his skill in battle praised to other warriors? "You told them about me? Who, who did you tell?"  
  
"Why, many people. And those I didn't see personally have surely heard by now. There was a large party in my tent when I left, and when I tired of talking about myself, I entertained them with stories of your prowess. They were quite impressed."  
  
"I don't believe this." Glorfindel looked at him with an expression that managed to mingle fury with deep hurt. Elrohir glanced down at his wine glass; had he perhaps had too much? None of this was making any sense. "I knew you didn't care about me," Glorfindel raged, "That I was just a brief fling and that you would move on almost at once. I knew why you came here tonight, before you even said a word, and I would have been gracious about it, too, I had already decided. But this! You have ruined my reputation with your tasteless boasts, and that I cannot forgive." He began looking about for something, tossing pillows and clothing every which way, while Elrohir's brain spun.   
  
What, exactly, had they been talking about? Surely, Glorfindel couldn't think . . . "Lirimaer, I . . . "  
  
"Don't you EVER call me that again!," Glorfindel snarled, then gave a cry of triumph. A second later Elrohir found himself pinned against the tent pole, a gleaming sword pointed at his breast. "I challenge you," Glorfindel informed him, his eyes snapping fire. "Get your sword or I will lend you one of mine, but I will be satisfied tonight!"  
  
Elrohir couldn't help himself. He knew it was not only in extremely poor taste, but also very stupid, to grin widely with a sword point a few inches from his heart, but his facial muscles simply would not obey his brain's hysterical commands to stay still. "All you had to do was ask nicely," he purred, wondering a bit at his own audacity, before knocking the sword from Glorfindel's hand and letting his momentum carry the both of them to the soft rug that covered the ground.  
  
"Get off me! Let me go! You are nothing but a barbarous, horrible . . . "  
  
Elrohir cut off the diatribe by simply covering Glorfindel's mouth with his own. He knew he needed to explain, to clear up the absurd misunderstanding, but a tide of sensation was carrying him away. The elf under him squirmed and fought, but Elrohir mastered him easily. Letting his tongue slide around one shapely ear, he murmured seductively, "I thought you wanted satisfaction. That would be easier to insure if you cooperated."  
  
Glorfindel was panting fiercely, but was obviously still boiling angry. "You . . . you would dare to take me unwilling?"  
  
"No. I won't have to." Elrohir was slightly shocked by his comment; he had never dared to speak to Glorfindel in such a way before, had not even contemplated doing so. But he could not deny that the challenge of making the enraged Elda beneath him give in to his passions was very tempting. "You want me," he murmured, slowly removing his knife from his belt. Well, why not? He'd fantasised before about cutting his lover out of his clothes, and yet had never been in a position to actually do it. The robes Glorfindel were wearing on this occasion were nothing special, and Elrohir would gladly buy him a thousand more to compensate. "You DO want me," he repeated, sliding the razor sharp blade up the side seam of Glorfindel's tunic. "Why not admit it?"  
  
Glorfindel regarded him through slightly hazy eyes, but his breath was coming fast and he was quite flushed for someone who felt no passion. Of course, Elrohir thought as he stripped away the tunic fabric and began on the shirt below, that blush could also be caused by anger. He'd have to find out.   
  
His job was soon done and all Glorfindel's golden skin lay bared to his sight. He ran an appreciative hand over its warm, silken texture, loving how his companion's eyes followed his every move, the way he arched up to meet the hand that glided slowly down his chest, and how his desperate arousal rose to meet him. "No," Glorfindel moaned, as if denying his body's betrayal.   
  
"No?" Elrohir suddenly stopped his exploration, and sat back on his heels. He was still fully dressed, and technically there was nothing stopping him from simply getting up and walking away. Nothing, that is, except a complete lack of will power where Glorfindel was concerned. Still, he would go no further until he had his lover's explicit permission. He wasn't going to have him coming back the next day and trying to say he forced him. "Well," he commented, rising suddenly to his feet, "I suppose I'll just have to be going then." He repressed a grin about the fact that it was Glorfindel himself who had taught him this particular ploy, so long ago it now seemed.  
  
"Going?" Glorfindel looked almost horrified at the thought. "Going?," he repeated, as Elrohir searched about for his cape. Where had he tossed the thing?  
  
Elrohir shrugged, "You said no. That ends it, I'm afraid. Which is too bad, as I was looking forward to providing that satisfaction you seemed so concerned about." He located his cape at last and draped it about his shoulders. "I suppose I will have to return to that boring party, and regale them with some more of your battlefield exploits. Pity."  
  
He had only taken a couple of steps when Glorfindel's voice called him back. "Battlefield? You were talking about . . . my combat skills?"  
  
"Of course, what else?" Elrohir kept his expression neutral, although it was extremely difficult. "And remember what I told you, don't let your first kills upset you. Many elves have problems with guilt after their first time in battle, but keep in mind that we did not start this war, and are only defending ourselves and our people." He regarded Glorfindel for a moment longer, trying and failing to wrench his eyes away from that long body and unconsciously seductive pose. "Let me know if you need anything, Glorfindel. We are friends, after all, aren't we?"  
  
Glorfindel looked at him from out of eyes that were suddenly suffused with happiness. "Friends," he confirmed. Then he rose in a lithe motion that made Elrohir's mouth suddenly go dry. "And for tonight, maybe lovers as well?"**  
  
Elrohir came back to himself with a feeling of serious disorientation. The darkness of the mines was nothing like the warm glow of Glorfindel's tent, and the chill dampness bore little resemblance to the warm summer's night he remembered. No, he corrected himself, not remembered. He could not remember something that had never happened. He looked fearfully about the dark corridor, but the colourful images had dissipated, at least for the moment. He breathed a sigh of relief, then hurried on his way. He had no idea how much longer he would be lucid, and needed every minute if he was to rescue the king before another illusion took him over. He did not even want to think about what would happen if something like that occurred in a moment of crisis, such as a battle. Would his enemies run him through while he was dreaming?  
  
A small voice of reason piped up, insisting that he flee the mines as quickly as possible. Surely Glorfindel and Erestor could rescue the king? He had no doubts that they could, if they could find him. Unfortunately, he had no way to contact them and give the directions, and in order to reach the area where Amras had said Oropher was being held, they would have to fight their way through almost the entire mine. Whereas, when they did attack, it would provide a distraction Elrohir could use as cover to release the king. He was the only one in a position to do it, and he knew where his duty lay. He only hoped he remained rational enough to do it before the images completely consumed him.   
  
* * *  
  
Gil-galad looked up from his book in surprise, feeling an alien presence nearby. Where was Elrond? There was no one in the study except for him, as his lover was presumably still asleep. After centuries of learning the hard way about the problems that could arise when two beings shared a body, Gil-galad was trying to be as unobtrusive as possible while Elrond adjusted to their new situation. He could, of course, see through Elrond's eyes if he chose, but that might constitute an invasion of privacy and he shied away from even the thought. Elrond had saved him; he owed him more consideration than that.   
  
Still, the presence was there, and as it drew closer, he realised with some surprise that he did not need Elrond's eyes after all. Whoever it was had decided to visit him as a mental presence rather than a physical one. He also received the impression that this soul was not a threat to either himself or his lover. He therefore sat quietly as the door slowly opened, but could not repress a blink of surprise when a familiar golden head cautiously peered around it. "Galadriel! What a wonderful surprise, my dear--do come in."  
  
Gil-galad had not seen the beautiful elf since he had last been in Lindon, and normally would have been pleased to renew an old acquaintance. However, the alarm on her lovely face stopped him before he could go on. "My dear, what is it? Are you unwell?" He thought briefly of waking Elrond, in case the healer's arts might be needed, but she held up a hand to stop him.   
  
"No, I am well. It is just the surprise . . . we all believed you to be dead."  
  
"Even you?" Gil-galad led her to a chair and pressed a glass of wine into her hand. He would have thought with her skills that she might have glimpsed the truth, but judging by her expression, whatever she might have known or guessed had not prepared her for seeing him again. Galadriel took a sip from the glass, then looked at it with astonishment. Gil-galad laughed, "If you relate to the world only through the mind, why not imagine the best?"  
  
Galadriel glanced about, apparently noticing her surroundings for the first time. "This is Lindon," she said in wonder.  
  
"My old study, yes. Elrond and I prefer to exist in Lindon whenever we can. I do not believe either of us ever truly left, not in our hearts, in any case."   
  
Galadriel nodded and sipped her wine silently, making no effort at further conversation. Gil-galad had never been troubled by lulls in discussions, but preferred for people to take their time and speak whenever they were ready. He amused himself by creating a small flock of butterflies outside his window, which swirled and danced in pretty patterns on the morning breeze. It was so liberating to be free of Sauron's ceaseless taunts and his own physical illness that every experience was a joy. He was happy to simply sit quietly, the blessed absence of pain in itself a form of great pleasure, and wait for Galadriel to speak. He had a fairly good idea why she had come anyway. He had known Gildor would talk to someone, since there was no real way for the child to contact him on his own without alerting Elrond, and Galadriel was an obvious choice.   
  
"You . . . are happy here, living like this?" Galadriel finally broke her silence, and watched him carefully as she finished her wine.   
  
"I am happy living," he responded placidly. "It has been a very long time since I did anything other than merely exist."  
  
"But . . . " Galadriel seemed lost for words, and clasped her hands tightly in her lap after setting her glass on a small table. "I don't mean to sound presumptuous, my lord, but is this . . . life . . . of yours really that much different from the one you have been experiencing all these years?"  
  
Gil-galad regarded her thoughtfully, wondering how to explain and also why she of all people would need such a clarification. Galadriel was more familiar with the abilities of the mind than any other elf he knew; it seemed strange to him that she could not see the obvious in his case. "I find it difficult to know how to describe what these last centuries were like. Here you are, a mental projection only, yet you feel the breeze from the window, you smell the flowers, you taste the wine . . . and yet it is not life?"  
  
"But these things are not real . . . "  
  
"Some philosophers say the same about the physical world, that it is all merely an illusion to deceive our minds, or a projection of universal realities we cannot hope to truly understand while in bodily form. I am no philosopher myself, but I have learned a few things through the years. The soul experiences life through the body, but can exist without it. I have accumulated enough knowledge to allow my soul to create virtually any scene I desire for its inhabitation; in addition, I experience all that Elrond does, see as he sees when I wish to do so, and feel what he feels. Yet I can be separate from him, too, as you see. What is restricted about this life?"  
  
"But . . . what about meeting other people, and having your own experiences instead of merely living through another? Is that not important as well? Living in a perpetual dream world cannot . . . "  
  
"I meet everyone Elrond does, Galadriel, yet you do not accuse him of having a restricted life. And I am not dreaming." He gestured about. "You see this study and pronounce it unreal, but it is simply the surroundings my soul chooses to occupy. You select your own surroundings, too, and tailor them to your needs, as you did in Lorien. Does it really matter if hands build a structure or if the mind creates it? Freed from my wrecked body, my soul can now remember all that it was, and look forward to what it can be. I perceive no limitations."  
  
Galadriel just looked at him for a long moment, her expression blank. When she spoke, it was slowly and carefully, and she watched every nuance of his expression. "No one knows that you live still, except for myself and Gildor. What do you think the attitude of most elves will be to the news that you survived the war, were brought back to Lorien where your body died, and now live as a part of Elrond?"  
  
"First my dear, you must understand that I am not a part of Elrond nor he of me. We share a body, true, but our souls and minds are as distinct as ever they were. Or do you think Sauron was a part of me all those years? I can assure you, that was never the case. As far as the elves reacting to my admittedly odd story, that will never be an issue unless they are informed of it."  
  
Galadriel looked shocked. Gil-galad almost smiled to see it, for he remembered her as virtually immune to such common emotions. He had always liked both her and Celeborn, but secretly thought they should let go of some of their dignity and enjoy themselves more. He had never been able to see them having, say, a pillow fight or skinny-dipping as he and Elrond were known to do when they could get away with it. Dignity, he had always believed, was best served if it was not too much dwelt upon.  
  
"You mean not to tell them, then?" A worried furrow appeared on Galadriel's pretty forehead, and she twisted her diaphanous scarf in her lap.   
  
"Elrond and I have yet to discuss it, but I believe that is the idea we favour."  
  
"But . . . but do they not deserve to know that their king has returned?"   
  
"Deserve?" Gil-galad mused over that for a few minutes, trying to think of a way to say what he must without insulting the lovely creature opposite him. He did not want to create a sense of guilt in her, or to add to the heavy burden of cares he already saw reflected in her eyes. Oh Galadriel, he thought sadly, I would gladly give you some of the joy I feel if it were possible, for you look as though it has been years since you knew any peace. All he could do, however, was to explain his point of view as kindly as circumstances allowed.   
  
"Galadriel . . . the elves reordered themselves after my disappearance. You and Celeborn govern here in Lorien, Elrond in Imladris and Thranduil in Greenwood. My years leading our people are done; I am not needed now." He shook his head at her mutinous look, and smiled. "You can argue with me all you like, but you know it is true. I feel that I have done as much for our people as I can, although, if my council is needed in future, you will certainly be able to avail yourself of it. But as far as the comment that I owe my people anything else--no, I don't believe I do. And I am tired, my dear, so very tired. The struggle with Sauron took all the strength I had. I wish now only to be with Elrond, and to help him overcome the guilt he has lived with for so many years. He has suffered more than you know, more, I almost think, than I did, for at least I never blamed myself for what occurred. My duty is to him now."  
  
"But if you departed for Mandos, your spirit would be reborn and someday, you could be with him again."  
  
"I am already with him," Gil-galad explained patiently, "why would I wish for us to be separated for thousands of more years? Especially when he needs me now?"  
  
Galadriel sighed, and began to appear frustrated. "You have no body. You are only a spirit and . . . "  
  
"Which is what we all will be in time." Gil-galad took her hand and held it gently, trying to find the words to make her understand. "The fate of all the elves is to fade to spirits alone before Arda passes away. I always believed, as we are taught to do, that such is almost a curse, and like most I was greatly distressed to think of leaving the material world behind. I have come to view things differently because of my experiences, for I discovered that I remain the same, however my soul manifests itself. I am still who I always was, just housed differently, so to speak. Someday, Elrond and I will leave this body, too, but our spirits will always be intertwined. Until then, I am content to dwell with him however I may. Do you understand?"  
  
Galadriel looked at him searchingly once again, her eyes wet as she struggled with his explanation. He knew she could not fully comprehend what he was trying to tell her, but hoped that she would trust him enough to accede to his request nonetheless. "I was once sworn to your side," she finally said, "I cannot oppose your wishes. But I also cannot speak for Gildor, and I am not certain what he will do. I will try to explain to him that you are . . . content . . . as things stand, but I do not know whether he will accept it."  
  
"That would be most kind of you." The king rose courteously as she stood, and was preparing to bid her goodbye when she suddenly spoke again.  
  
"If you really wish things to remain unknown, there may be a way to avoid difficult questions, and to put Gildor's fears to rest at the same time."   
  
"I would be greatly interested in hearing such a solution," he commented, and was pleased when a smile lit up her face.   
  
"I am in Imladris now--Gildor sent a messenger bird to me with his request--but I will return to Lorien soon. Try to stay out of sight until I can see you in person."  
  
* * *  
  
TBC 


	34. Chapter ThirtyFour

Title: Wild Justice 34/?   
  
Author: Rune Dancer  
  
Rating: R   
  
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin  
  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline.   
  
Warnings: BDSM.   
  
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused.   
  
* * *  
  
Elrohir edged further along the narrow passageway into which the already slim corridor had shrunk. It was terribly claustrophobic, with a rough ceiling so low that it snagged strands of his hair as he moved forward, and there was barely enough room even for his slim form to pass through. Normally it would have had him hyperventilating, his hatred of enclosed, underground places as great as any of his kind, but fighting off another bout of his mental problem was providing a useful distraction. So it was that he barely noticed the confined quarters and did not even flinch when the tunnel drew in even more, forcing him to begin to walk hunched over like one of the orcs who habitually used it.   
  
It abruptly let out onto a small ledge beyond which was a sheer drop into blackness. Elrohir clutched at the rough walls behind him and maintained a tentative toehold on the crumbling pathway. Edging along it, he resolutely kept reciting snatches of poetry, old song lyrics, anything to keep his mind too preoccupied to permit it to focus on another illusion. He knew he was running out of time, however, as the familiar bright colors were beginning to swirl around the edge of his vision once more.   
  
After following the little ledge along what felt to be an endless path through a darkness almost thick enough to feel, Elohir at last reached the rubble-strewn floor of the cavern. He knew there were sharp rocks littering the ground because several of them poked painfully into his ankles as he made his way cautiously forward. He could not see them, however, as there was almost no light at all this far underground; by comparison, the dim passages above seemed as bright as day.  
  
He was beginning to despair of locating anything in the pitch-blackness, when a flood of light suddenly erupted around him. At first he thought that a party of orcs must have arrived carrying some of their tiny lanterns, as even the illumination from those largely useless objects would seem bright to him at the moment. A second later, however, he realised his mistake.  
  
**The smoke was making it difficult to see, but Elrohir had no difficulty at all in picking out the two huge balrogs who were wreaking havoc as they carved a path up the great hill towards the castle. Around their feet, hundreds of orcs swarmed, defiling the beautiful city with their very presence. The balrogs seemed oblivious to them, crushing several under their feet with apparently no concern at all. Thankfully, most of the city's inhabitants had already fled this sector, leaving him and most of Glorfindel's household to deal with the invaders unimpeded.   
  
Elrohir's own elves were waiting in Fountain Court. They were the best warriors in the city, something the Noldoran captains were usually loath to admit, but under the circumstances it had been quickly decided that they were to be held back as a last defense before the palace. Elrohir had personally trained every one of the Sindarin warriors in his house, and he knew they would fight to the death rather than give up. He had given them strict orders to see to the king's welfare, but he had his doubts whether Turgon would be willing to evacuate the city. He only hoped Glorfindel was seeing to the king's safety as well as that of his daughter.  
  
Elrohir watched the two balrogs come closer, their heavy footsteps causing the ground to quake beneath him. He had prayed fervently as he and his elves carved a path through the orcs, that the creatures would come this way, and it looked as though his supplications had been answered. A high stone arch passed over the street in front of him, connecting two large buildings. It had been originally designed as an extra gate, but the city had grown so quickly that houses soon engulfed it. It had long been used instead as a conduit for foot traffic, as the street below was a main route for laden carts arriving from the countryside for market. The archway looked much as it always did, except that it was covered in bright bunting and flower garlands for the festival; incongruously, two huge fire demons rose up behind the pretty scene, ripping apart the once peaceful street with their whips. "A little closer," Elrohir whispered, praying that they wouldn't deviate from their current direction. A young elf next to him looked at him strangely, probably wondering why he would want the creatures to come closer when the rest of the city was wishing just the opposite, but Elrohir merely smiled at him. He would see the answer for himself soon enough.   
  
The balrogs came on swiftly, and Elrohir stood his ground, slaughtering a few passing orcs as he did so, until they reached the optimum position. "NOW!" His shout was immediately answered by the elves he had sent into the towers on either side of the bridge. It was too strong for the balrogs to break as easily as they had the wooden houses, so they had done as he expected and not attempted it. Instead, anxious to get to the castle as soon as possible, they simply ducked underneath. As they did so, the elves he had put in place let loose the gate mechanism and the two demons were temporarily trapped beneath its old iron teeth. A hail of elvish arrows bit into them as they roared and thrashed about, melting the heavy iron spikes into running stream of metal as they did so, and shaking the entire bridge to its foundations.  
  
Elrohir wasted no time. As soon as he saw that the plan was going to work, he ran forward, ignoring the cinders from the balrog's ripped flesh that sputtered against his armor. It took a great deal more heat to melt mithril than iron, and he did not intend to give them the chance. After sweeping his sword about to slice through several orcs who were attempting to free the monsters, he buried it to the hilt between the first one's eyes. The creature gave a horrible death cry that rang off the surrounding buildings and echoed down the street. Before its cry had completely died away, he and several of Glorfindel's elves attacked the remaining balrog, but there they had less good fortune. The creature was injured, but not mortally so, and was howlingly angry as it shook off the remaining bits of the gate. Elrohir barely ducked in time as a red-hot piece of metal passed right over his head, and he danced back a few yards when the gate exploded under the onslaught.   
  
The demon rose above him, several stories high, its molten red centre showing through a crusted black outer skin. It somehow seemed to realise that Elrohir was the leader, for although many other elves shot at it from the ground and surrounding house windows, it was towards him it came. Elrohir watched it do so with a feeling of inevitability. Some part of his brain screamed at him to run, for who could stand up to something like that? But then, where was there to go? Their city was dying around them, that he knew even if others had not yet accepted it. Gondolin would fall this day; its enemies were simply too many and too strong. Elrohir saw nothing but stupidity in fighting to save that which was already doomed, but he could understand the need to buy time for as many of the inhabitants as possible to be evacuated. He thought fleetingly of Glorfindel, and hoped that he was on his way out by now with Turgon and the princess in tow. It was his lover's face that he kept in mind as he waited for the thing to come closer. Glorfindel would need all the time he could give him.  
  
It was with a sense of complete shock that Elrohir found himself still alive a few minutes later, while the carcass of the second balrog lay steaming at his feet. He regarded it with a sense of unreality as Glorfindel's elves cheered all around him. He had won, he realised, simply because he had not run. The creature had obviously not expected a lone elf to stand and fight, and had aimed its whip beyond him, expecting to trip him up as he tried to escape its wrath. When he unexpectedly stood his ground, the creature had to try to stop its forward momentum at the last minute--not an easy task for something the size of a house--and in doing so had exposed its vulnerable underbelly to Elrohir's sword. He had pierced the skin with his mithril blade, which unlike lesser weapons had not melted in the heat from the creature's body. Torrents of a lava like substances had rushed out of the wound, searing his hand, but he had nonetheless plunged the blade even deeper, knowing that he would never get a second chance. One of Glorfindel's elves grabbed his other arm and spun him away at the last moment, just as the creature folded up and slammed into the paving stones where he had been standing, sending a shock wave the length of the street as it did so.   
  
"My lord, you're injured!" The young elf who had saved his life was regarding Elrohir's right arm with mingled pity and revulsion. He saw that his armor had deflected some of the liquid, but burning acid had run into the joints at his wrist and elbow, severely blistering the skin below. His arm was not only excruciatingly painful, but useless, his sword almost falling from his limp hand. Fortunately he, like all the Sindar, had been trained to be ambidextrous in combat, a fact he demonstrated by grabbing his weapon and stabbing a passing orc, but he did not possess as much strength or dexterity with his left hand. Still, it would have to do, for the battle was only beginning.**  
  
Elrohir came back to himself, sweat soaked and panting from exertion without any idea why. Then he noticed that several small lanterns were by his feet, turned onto their sides and spreading pools of light across the cavern floor. All around him, orc carcasses were piled. He saw with amazement that there were two or three dozen altogether, and they had obviously not died of natural causes. What was even more worrying was that blood still oozed from several, sending black streams running across the dusty ground. Elrohir knelt and briefly felt the skin of the orc nearest his feet; it was still warm. He immediately snatched his hand back and drew his sword, looking about fearfully and wondering who might have done this. He did not see how Glorfindel and the others could have reached this far so quickly, but perhaps he had been in the mines longer than he thought.   
  
"Glorfindel?" His own voice echoing back to him was the only reply he received. Elrohir bent to pick up a lantern, wishing for some more light to help him locate the orc killer, when he saw it. The lantern showed rivulets of blood that spread out like lace over the shiny surface of his weapon. He stared at it in shock. Hadn't he cleaned it after the fight in the glade? He was sure he had, and was equally certain that he had used his knives rather than his sword on the orcs he had killed after entering the mines. Why then was there fresh blood on his blade? Elrohir shivered in the darkness, sending the little beams of light from the lamp dancing all about him. What in Mandos had just happened?  
  
* * *  
  
Erestor smiled at the three orcs who huddled against the wall of the cavern, looking at he and Camthalion as if at the faces of doom, which in their case was an apt analogy. "All I want to know," he told them nicely, "is where to find the elves. If you tell me, I shall consider sparing your lives; if you lie, you will die in the most painful way I can devise over a very extended period of time. Do I make myself clear?"  
  
Erestor noticed one of the orcs glancing at Camthalion, who was fingering his knife with an expression that clearly said he hoped they were not going to prove cooperative. The orcs understood that--malice was an emotion with which they were well acquainted--but Erestor was equally certain they had comprehended his words. He did most of the interrogation at Imladris, and had centuries before picked up enough of their foul tongue to be able to make his wishes understood. Even now, tired from the long fight to breach the entrance, he was clear headed enough to know he spoke plainly. His patience, on the other hand, was beginning to fray a bit. "Where are they?" He picked the closest orc up by its filthy collar and shook it, letting its head bang against the stone wall behind it. "TELL me or I swear . . . "  
  
The orc quailed under his glare, and tried to shield its eyes from the light of the lantern Camthalion held in his hand. It had grown late as their party searched for a way into the caverns and the sky behind them was now fully dark. The front entrance they had hoped to use was obviously impossible; when they reached it, Erestor immediately noted the additional barriers and booby traps that had been put in place and stopped the others before they could needlessly waste their lives. A careful exploration of nearby crags had finally yielded another entrance, but even that small crack in the cliff face had an impressive force guarding it. Indeed, if it hadn't been for the large number of orcs milling about, they probably would never have noticed it at all, for the creatures concealed their entrances well. Battling the guards had taken even more time, and night had fallen as they did so. Thankfully, there was as yet no sign of the returning main orcish force, but there was no way of knowing how much longer that would hold true. Erestor decided that he did not have time for finesse.  
  
"Tell me what I want to know or die now; I have no more time to waste on you." His matter-of-fact tone seemed to frighten the creature before him in a way his previous threats had not, and it soon told him all it knew. Unfortunately, that was not much, and when another of its party leapt up and efficiently snapped the traitor's throat, they lost even the hope of a guide for the dark tunnels ahead. Camthalion disposed of the remaining orcs before they could do any more damage while Erestor tried to think.  
  
"I take it that was not very useful?"  
  
Erestor looked up at Glorfindel who, as usual, had not interfered with his interrogation, but had stood off to one side, his expression closed and brooding. "He said that he wasn't sure where they are, but that an order had gone out at our approach to gather all the elves together. He assumed they were being marked for execution, but never heard the actual order given."  
  
"That would prevent any hope of rescue," Glorfindel mused, looking, Erestor thought, remarkably calm about the prospect. "There is nothing to be done, then, but continue until we find an orc who DOES know something, or until we see the corpses of the elves. I will not take one of these creature's words for anything, Erestor. We continue until we are certain, one way or the other."  
  
Erestor agreed that they had little choice. They had come too far and risked too much to turn back now. Still, he gave a brief thought to the fact that it might have been wise to bring Elwyyda with them. True, she had little knowledge of the mines outside her own rather restricted area, but that was still better than they possessed at the moment.   
  
"It is odd, don't you think?" Glorfindel was still looking thoughtful, and Erestor glanced up at him hopefully. Any suggestion would be welcome at the moment, considering that they were facing the daunting prospect of fighting their way through the entire mine with no idea how many orcs remained inside, where the captives might be, or even if they still lived. "The elves are valuable to us, of course, but to the orcs, they should be nothing more than mine slaves--easily replaceable should one tumble into a crevasse. Judging by . . . Zirak's . . . appearance when we found him, even the greatest of them was not well treated. So why the extra security and elaborate attempts to avoid having them rescued? Doesn't it seem strange to you?"  
  
Erestor shrugged. The only thing that seemed odd to him at the moment was waiting around in a shallow cave while the chilly night breeze gave him pneumonia. Not that the mines would be much warmer, but at least chopping apart a few orcs might provide the opportunity to work up a sweat. "I don't know and, frankly Glorfindel, at the moment I don't care." Under different circumstances Erestor would have found it amusing that their roles seemed to have reversed--he was suddenly the one in favour of action while Glorfindel was content to stand about thinking--but his sense of humour had deserted him at the moment. In any case, thinking in this case was unlikely to get them anywhere, as there was not enough information with which to speculate. "They are probably being held on a lower level; I am sure we'll meet a few orcs on the way down who can be persuaded to give us directions."   
  
He decided not to think about what could happen if they were trapped in a lower point in the mines when the main orcish force returned. Instead, he took his frustrations out on his Noldor, whom he spent several moments threatening with dire consequences if they gave into temptation and slaughtered every orc they met. Not that he didn't agree with their sentiments, but it was difficult even for him to get information from a corpse. Erestor was just grateful that they did not know the identity of the elf they had helped to rescue the last time. If they received even an inkling that the High King had been tortured by these creatures, he doubted if there was anything that could prevent them from killing indiscriminately.  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
Elrohir looked about the little cave he had just entered in amazement. He had blundered his way across the cavern floor with the help of one of the dead orc's lanterns, only tripping over corpses occasionally, until a faint outline of light from ahead told him that he was nearing his goal. No less than three massive locks protected a large iron banded doorway, but Elrohir found Erestor's skeleton key to be useful once again, easily opening two of them. The third, however, simply refused to budge, and unlike Erestor who had a whole collection of the magic keys, Elrohir was restricted to just the one. After a futile few minutes, he had almost decided to abandon subtlety and hack at the cursed thing with his knives, when common sense reasserted itself. He really had no desire to alert whoever had killed the orcs to his presence, or to bring more of the creatures scurrying right for him. Making his way back to the slaughtered piles of orcs, he rummaged around in their fetid clothing until he finally found a large key ring that one still clutched in his grimy hand.   
  
One of the keys fit the final lock, and Elrohir bit back a cry of relief. Turning the handle slowly, he edged into the room beyond, careful to make no discernable sound. The room itself, however, caused him to stop and stare about in openmouthed astonishment.   
  
Most elves did not care overmuch for treasure, at least not the same kind that appealed to men and dwarves, but apparently orcs felt differently. Elrohir regarded with awe the piles of mithril, gold, jewels of every description, fine fabrics tossed into negligent heaps, casks of expensive balms and perfumes, and fine old books and scrolls. He had never before thought about what the orcs did with the all treasure they stole from the travelers they killed, but he supposed he now knew. There had to be hundreds of years' worth of plunder stashed here, although none of it looked much used. The piles of precious metals actually had a thick layer of dust on them, some of the beautiful fabrics were beginning to molder in the damp air of the caves and a few scrolls had fallen to the floor and been carelessly trampled under dirty goblin feet. Still, this represented more wealth than Elrohir had ever seen in his life, and explained the heavy locks on the door and the large number of guards that had been in the cave. What it did not do was help him locate the king, as the chamber appeared to be empty of life.  
  
He passed quickly through the treasure room, prudently leaving no footprints on the dusty floor by keeping to the narrow trail countless numbers of goblins had left. He passed through several more caves, each equally filled with unimaginable wealth, before coming to a much smaller door that was once again carefully locked. None of the keys from the orc's key ring worked on this one, nor did Erestor's skeleton key. Elrohir tried to fit the point of his knife into it, but to his astonishment, the tip broke completely off when he tried to force it. Wonderful, a mithril lock, that was all he needed.   
  
All right, he thought, reason it out. That was easier said than done when his overworked nerves interpreted every sound as the tread of light footed warriors sneaking up on him, but he forced himself to concentrate. These caves seemed to contain all that the orcs most valued, so if they put a high price on Oropher's life, it made sense that they would keep him in their most secured location. It was odd, however, that they had not demanded a ransom for him all these centuries, and if money was not their interest, what value could he have? But that was something to worry about later; right now the issue was to get him out, assuming it was indeed Oropher that the small room imprisoned.   
  
After a few more minutes of fruitless attempts at lock picking, Elrohir finally gave up and decided to risk calling out. If Oropher was on the other side of the door, he might have an idea how to help free himself; of course, if it was someone else, Elrohir was possibly about to be in big trouble, but he didn't see that he had many options. Just as he was about to test his theory, however, a cry resounded through the caves behind him, and the thud of heavy feet resounded through the room. Looking about frantically, he spotted a hiding place behind several large casks and dived out of sight just as three figures entered the small cave.   
  
The leader was tall and dressed in a floor length cape that concealed his identity. The other two were large orcs armed to the teeth and looking even more annoyed than orcs usually did. "Find who did this." The voice was low and hoarse, and did not sound like that of an orc to Elrohir. Of course, his height would have ruled that out in any case. The two goblins moved away swiftly, starting a search of the nearby caves. Elrohir wondered how long it would be before they thought to search this one. Something told him he was running out of time.   
  
* * *  
  
"That's the rest of them.''   
  
Celeborn nodded at Thranduil's low voiced comment, as a small group of fifteen dusty and tired looking elves made their way into the small encampment. They were the last of several small parties Thranduil had sent to harass the edges of the orc army and keep it moving in the direction of the pass. Celeborn was glad to have them back, and to see that they had apparently lost no one in their attacks, but he could spare them little thought. His mind was completely absorbed with the plan they were about to put into effect, for it was the only chance either he or Thranduil could see to destroy the invading force without losing the lives of many elves in the process. The mountain valleys in which small patches of forest grew were almost non-existent after the pass, so ambush techniques such as they had been using would no longer work until the army entered the woods of Lorien. Celeborn repressed a shudder at the very thought; they would never reach his home--he would not allow it.   
  
He glanced about the rocky promontory where the elves had concealed themselves behind a few scraggly bushes. He knew there were hundreds of Thranduil's people scattered about, but even his sharp eyes had difficulty picking them out. The dim starlight suffusing the landscape did not help, but he was still surprised at how difficult it was to see any of the elves that he knew were nearby. The few trees that grew this high must have been groaning under their weight, but none could be seen in the branches. Their dark green clothing should have been easily spotted among the rocks, yet he saw nothing that could not be mistaken for a stray patch of grass. He smiled. If he had to be in a do or die situation, he could have done far worse for allies.  
  
Celeborn heard it first, the faint, far off sound of thousands of heavy footfalls, enough to shake the earth itself with their weight. Thranduil tensed beside him a second later and raised a hand to alert his elves. Celeborn felt a rush of adrenaline flood him such as he had not known for centuries. He felt somewhat ashamed of himself--many elves would die if this went wrong, both here and in the kingdoms beyond--but nonetheless he could not deny that it was the most thrilling experience he had had in a very long time. Silently, he nocked one of the arrows from the quiver he had spent much of the night refilling and waited. The timing was crucial, and he could only hope Thranduil's elves were as well trained as he had been boasting. If any of them acted too soon, all would be lost.  
  
The orc army seemed to take forever to show itself, but when it did, Celeborn caught his breath in wonder. He had not had the chance to see it in its full numbers before, and it was an amazing sight as it flooded into the pass like a river of dirty water. He took in a few deep breaths to calm himself, and noted with respect the fact that Thranduil's hand did not tremble even slightly as he held it up, ready to give the signal at the optimum time. As soon as the first few hundred goblins had entered the pass, he dropped his arm, signalling the first runner to leave on his race to alert the elves at the far end of the slender canyon. They had to create a rockslide to bar the army from leaving the pass, but not before it had gone too far to turn about. The elves wanted the orcs to think the rockslide was a small impediment that could be easily removed with a few minutes' work, not to decide to pull out and take another route.  
  
The army surged on for several hours, the jostling ranks kicking and snarling at each other as they were crowded into the narrow confines of the pass. Their heavy shields were at their sides, to be raised in a second as a protective covering over their heads if the elves should try an ambush, and their weapons were ready in their hands. They nonetheless seemed confidant, perhaps due to their numbers or because their sharp eyes were comfortable in the low light. It would be daybreak in a few hours but, if the elves were lucky, this band of orcs would never see it.  
  
* * *  
  
Oh no, Elrohir thought in dismay as the hooded figure fitted key to lock and opened the door a fraction; he could barely see him because the now familiar colours were starting to glow again at the edge of his vision, but he couldn't have a black out now! He had no idea if he moved or spoke during the hallucinations, but even if not, the orcs might come back at any time or summon others to help with their search. If they found him passed out on the floor, he somehow doubted that they would bother waking him up before running a sword through him. He resorted to the old method of banging his head into one of the casks, hoping that the pain would hold off the inevitable, but the slight noise that resulted caused the hooded figure to pause and seemingly sniff at the air, so he desisted. After a few moments hesitation, the cloaked figure resumed his previous occupation and passed through the narrow opening in the door. It looked from Elrohir's angle like an impossible task, as the crack was appeared only a few inches wide, but that had to be a trick of the eyes.   
  
Elrohir noticed that the door did not shut behind the figure, so after a few moments, he cautiously ventured closer, keeping to the shadows instinctively even though he knew they would not help him elude orcish eyes. The door must have slightly shut after all, because there was only a small crack open when Elrohir reached it. He peered in but could see very little. A few candles were burning, so lighting wasn't the issue, but no one was in line of sight from the doorway, nor did he at first hear any conversation. Then the same low voice he had heard addressing the orcs spoke again.   
  
"It seems you may be useful after all, old one. My master will be pleased that I kept you safe all these years; as I told him, it is always good to have an alternative." Elrohir could hear no reply, but the sound of chains clanking together echoed clearly through the room. "Come, it seems your friends are looking for you, but they will find nothing when they arrive."  
  
Elrohir barely had time to duck back behind the casks when two figures emerged from the room. The hooded one held onto a heavy chain that was attached securely to an iron ring about the neck of an elf who almost matched him in height. Elrohir wanted to cry out at the sight, but managed to restrain himself by biting down hard on his lower lip. It was Oropher--it had to be! The elf did not look as battered as Zirak had been, but was rather in the condition of the elves he had freed earlier--dirty, emaciated and exhausted looking, but without signs of serious injury. It was hard to tell what colour his hair might have been, for it was too matted and covered with the grey dust from the caves to be sure, but out of sunken sockets his eyes shone almost as if they held a light all their own, and their colour was the distinctive bright green of Thranduil's house. He did not bother to reply to his gaoler, nor did he put up a resistance as he was drawn along at a quick pace out of the treasure caves.   
  
Elrohir followed the two back to the large main cavern with the dead orcs. No one had bothered to clear them away, although a dozen goblins were pawing through their clothing, apparently looking for plunder. Elrohir paused at the exit to the treasure caves, uncertain what to do. Clearly, Oropher was being moved, and he had to follow or he might never locate him again. It must be night outside by now, and the orcs could even take him beyond the mine if they chose. Yet venturing out into a cavern where at least a dozen goblins already waited, and where others might be concealed in the shadows, did not appeal. His eyesight was hazy at best in the deep shadows of the mines, while the orcs would be able to see him clearly. A dozen arrows coming at him from different directions could skewer him before he even saw his attackers. As much as he hated to admit it, there seemed no way to rescue Oropher without help, and wherever his team was, they obviously hadn't made it this far yet.  
  
Elrohir was distracted from his gloomy thoughts by a fierce battle raging off to one side of his vision. He ignored it, but it did not go away. He resolutely looked in the other direction, but it followed him relentlessly. No, leave me be, he thought desperately. As if things weren't bad enough!   
  
**Elrohir raced up the steepest street in the city, only pausing to slash at an orc that came too close or to avoid a burning cart that careened into his path. All around him elves were fleeing or fighting, orcs were smashing everything that they were not claiming as plunder, and overhead, several dragons wheeled in seemingly impossible loops and arcs, setting more of the ruined street aflame with every pass. Elrohir ignored all of it, so intent was he on reaching his goal--the final battle that raged at the very heart of the once beautiful city, on the pinnacle where the palace topped the spiral of earth like a king's crown and where Fountain Court lay in sparkling splendor. He had heard the battle cry of his house resound through the city minutes before, telling him that his elves had charged the enemy. That they would do this before he could rejoin them said without the need for words just how desperate matters had become.  
  
Elrohir and the surviving members of Glorfindel's house had been trying to slow down the invading waves of orcs to allow the rest of the city's inhabitants to flee. They had been battling two enemies, however, the army flooding through the ruined gates and the stupidity of people who refused to accept that their city was doomed and to get away with their lives at least. He had had to personally pull a family of elves out of their smoking house and, at sword point, order them to leave immediately. Even then, the mother had insisted on carefully fastening the door behind her, as if that would insure that the house and its contents would still be intact for her return. They had also carried enough baggage with them that Elrohir seriously doubted their ability to outrun even the slowest of orcs, but he had had no more time to spare for arguments.  
  
Elrohir drew up short as he reached Fountain Court, the sight before him knocking all else from his mind. A huge balrog, roughly twice the size of the ones he had killed, reared up over him, although it did not apparently see him at the moment. The scurrying elves must look like children to it, he thought in dazed wonder, before the sight of Eirien, his chief lieutenant, snapped him out of it. She was looking less than her usual calm and collected self and was covered in blood, although it was the blackish colour of the orcs' rather than her own, he noted with relief.   
  
"Where are the others?' All he could see in the court were perhaps two dozen elves, whereas there should have been ten times that number, even if his own people were the only ones there.   
  
"We ARE the others--the only survivors!," she screamed at him, tears streaking the smoke residue that covered her fair face. "They are dead, Ecthelion, all of them! That thing and two dragons killed most of them, and . . . " she screamed and dragged him under the remains of one of the great marble pillars surrounding the court, just before the lash of the balrog's whip could turn them both into ashes. Marble dust and smoke billowed up around them, shielding them for a moment from view. "Some were helping to evacuate the palace; I don't know, they may live still, but none of us will for long at this rate!"  
  
"What have you tried to do to kill it?"   
  
"What CAN we do? Few even managed to get close to that thing, and those that did didn't last long. Its hide is just too thick--even mithril blades won't penetrate it! It's Gothmog, Ecthlion, it MUST be! And I always thought the stories about him were exaggerated!"  
  
"Where are the dragons? I don't see them." Elrohir had thought of a plan, suggested by the billowing smoke that churned all about them, but he needed to know that Gothmog was the only opponent he would face if he tried it.  
  
"I don't know, probably off terrorizing the city somewhere. They flew away a few minutes ago." Elrohir nodded, they must have been the ones he'd seen setting fires further down the hill.  
  
"Gather what elves we have left and clear the area of orcs, then form up just beyond the entrance. I'll take care of Gothmog, but I can't fight him and an army of orcs at the same time. You must give me a few minutes without distractions."   
  
Eirien looked at him wildly for a second, her soot streaked hair falling in her eyes and her hands clutching convulsively at his shoulders. "Are you mad? I'm not leaving you to fight that thing alone! I'll relay your orders to the others and then we'll . . . "  
  
"You will do as I tell you." Elrohir spoke as calmly as the situation allowed, for he didn't have much time. The smoke was clearing, and they had to move as soon as it did so. "They need leadership, Eirien, and I can't be two places at once. Do as I say and leave the balrog to me."  
  
"But . . . but you're injured!"  
  
Elrohir was tempted to slap her, but he didn't want that to be the last memory she had of him, so he settled for shaking her instead. "Did your oath of loyalty mean nothing?" Elrohir sighed in relief, seeing something of her usual discipline reassert itself. "Hold the entrance to the court as long as you can, then when you see the monster fall, start your retreat. Aid as many elves as you can to get away from here, but do not stay and waste your lives in a loss cause."  
  
"But the city will fall . . . "  
  
"The city has already fallen, Eirien! None of us can save it! Will you do as I say?" At her tearful nod, he smiled. He would have liked to tell her how proud he was of her, and how good a lieutenant she had always been, but there was no more time. "Tell Glorfindel I'm sorry," he said, then ducked back into the open, grabbing up a fallen elf's spear and throwing it at Gothmog's eyes as he did so. The balrog might seem invincible to the other elves, but Elrohir had just killed two of them and he no longer felt the same way. They COULD die, and this one must, for the fleeing elves would have no chance at escape if it was allowed to pursue them. Fortunately, Fountain Court held the perfect weapon with which to defeat even the greatest of balrogs. Elrohir just had to get him into it.   
  
* * *  
  
TBC 


	35. Chapter ThirtyFive

Title: Wild Justice 35/?   
  
Author: Rune Dancer  
  
Rating: R   
  
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin  
  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline.   
  
Warnings: BDSM.   
  
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused.   
  
* * *  
  
Orophin put down the apple he had been munching and stared at Elladan. They were in bed in his family talan where they had been spending a few peaceful days before his leave was up and he had to return to the borders. There had been no word from Haldir, who was still recovering in the royal talan, which could mean that he had forgotten about his revenge, or, more likely, that he was taking his time devising something truly awful. The last time Orophin spoke to Rumil, his brother had promised to intercede for him to prevent whatever terrible fate Haldir had in mind, although Orophin had his doubts as to the likelihood of success. He had decided that, if he was soon to be made to regret the day of his birth, he might as well enjoy the time he had left, and his young lover had proved more than willing to help in that regard. Until, that is, Elladan had noticed something in the gardens that apparently intrigued him.  
  
"He's up to something, I'm telling you!"  
  
"What difference does it make?" Orophin rolled over and attempted to pull his lover back into his arms to resume their prior occupation. They had already tried virtually every position he knew, but there was always the possibility he would think up a new one. Especially if he had some help from his partner.  
  
"Just look," Elladan thwarted his plans by slipping out of his arms, then tugging him over to the side of the bed near the window. Orophin obliged him simply to hurry this along, but saw nothing particularly interesting happening below. Lord Elrond sat on a bench in the beautiful flower garden usually used only by Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel. There was nothing odd about that, however, as he was their son-in-law and no doubt had the run of the palace. "Do you see him?"  
  
"See what? It's only Lord Elrond reading a book"  
  
"Look there," Elladan pointed to a small clump of flowering bushes a good distance from Elrond, but closer to their position. It took Orophin's eyes a while to discern what his lover was talking about, but after a moment he saw him--an elf had concealed himself in the bushes and was lying there, apparently watching Lord Elrond. Why anyone would want to do that, Orophin couldn't imagine, unless Elrond had acquired yet another admirer who was too shy to approach him directly. Probably a smart move, Orophin thought wryly, especially if he handled unwanted attraction the same way as his youngest son.  
  
"Who is it?" Orophin couldn't tell for certain, as the bushes did their job of concealment well, and the elf had his face turned away in any case. A second later he received a strong clue, however, when he noticed Haldir stealthily making his way around the perimeter of the garden, apparently intently watching the watcher. That and the dark hair of the elf in the bushes were the only clues he needed. There was only one person of Orophin's acquaintance who had ever been able to drive his brother completely mad, and while sneaking around the lord and lady's private garden didn't exactly qualify as insane, it would undoubtedly earn the heretofore-respected march warden a severe reprimand if anyone found out about it. "Why is Gildor spying on your father?"  
  
"I have no idea, but let's go find out."  
  
"Oh, no you don't." Orophin grabbed his lover before he could jump off the bed and pressed him back against his chest. This was more like it. "I much prefer it in here. No one is supposed to use that garden except for the invited guests of the lord and lady."  
  
"I'm their grandson, Orophin," Elladan reminded him with a grin, "they won't care. Not to mention the fact that they aren't even here right now." Elladan's eyes sparkled with the wicked glint that warned of trouble in the making. "Oh don't be such a spoil sport--come with me! After all, what could happen?"  
  
Orophin groaned at the familiar, fateful phrase, but followed his lover out the door anyway. Someone had to try to keep him out of trouble, although with these Peredhils, that was never an easy task. He wondered if Imladris was always this chaotic, and breathed a small sigh of thanks that he lived in beautiful, usually peaceful, Lorien.  
  
* * *  
  
Haldir was becoming quite uncomfortable. His ankle was better that morning after almost an entire day of rest, but the bush under which he had squeezed himself was prickly and the position he had been forced to take to insure concealment was awkward. It didn't help that the day was unusually hot for Lorien, causing trickles of perspiration to keep running into his eyes. He wanted to get a bath and change clothes, but nonetheless stayed where he was. The matter at hand was far more important than a little physical discomfort; he was staring at a potential disaster.   
  
Haldir had noticed the previous day that Gildor seemed oddly quiet, but had assumed that he was merely shaken by their experience, as Haldir was himself to a degree. He had often heard that the older, more powerful elves could enter each other's thoughts, even communicating over long distances if they chose, but he had never before been in another's mind or truly understood what it was like. It had been unsettling, to say the least, especially those last few moments when he had feared that Gildor was in danger. So he had not been particularly surprised that his lover was quieter than usual thereafter, and indeed had felt by the end of the day that perhaps it had been a good experience for them both. Gildor had hardly left his side the whole day, and had not been able to do enough for him. Haldir had been more than happy to relax and let himself be pampered, relishing having Gildor's complete attention for a change. But that morning, everything had changed.  
  
Haldir had awoken early, having had a good deal of sleep the previous day, and expected to find Gildor curled up beside him. Instead, his lover had been missing from their bed, and when he did not return after a few minutes, Haldir went in search of him. He had finally found him in the courtyard before the palace, where Lord Elrond was giving instructions to a large group of the border patrol. He was sending them to rendezvous with Lord Celeborn, and for a moment Haldir's attention had strayed away from his lover at the news that reinforcements were needed. Yet Elrond did not seem overly worried about the situation, and when Haldir offered his services once Elrond's speech ended, he was politely refused.   
  
"Your ankle should be better today, Haldir, but it is still weak. Break it yet again and you may spend the next month in bed. We have enough elves to give your lord the support he requested; go, enjoy your rest while you can."  
  
Haldir had decided to follow orders for once, a decision helped greatly by his curiosity over Gildor's strange, furtive actions. Gildor had stayed well away from the crowd of elves, not approaching them but also not returning to the palace. Even more oddly, he had attempted to conceal himself behind a large tree, but had not done a very capable job of it as he kept darting his head around the side in what looked like an attempt to get a better view of Elrond. Haldir was about to go ask him what in Arda he thought he was doing, when Lord Elrond turned to mount the steps of the palace once more. Gildor immediately followed, using plants and then, once the palace was reached, various large vases and wall niches for cover. Intensely curious by now, Haldir followed him. After a few minutes, he almost wished he hadn't.  
  
Elrond had not returned to his rooms but had gone to the kitchens to oversee the food preparation for several of the elves who had been wounded alongside Gildor. A few of them were still in serious condition, and Elrond apparently wanted to insure that nothing they were fed was causing some of the complications they were experiencing. Gildor wedged himself into a tiny area near the kitchen stairs and peered at Elrond intently through the railing as he took a taste of the broth the chef had prepared to make sure it was not overly spicy. Haldir's heart sank with every passing second for, although he was standing in full view in the doorway, he was completely ignored; he doubted that Gildor was even aware of his presence, for his lover's eyes never left the lord of Imladris.   
  
Haldir instinctively ducked out of sight as Elrond finished his conversation and exited the kitchens. Elrond didn't notice him in the shadows of the wide corridor leading back to the main parts of the palace, and neither did Gildor when he furtively followed a moment later. Haldir continued to trail after them, although he was beginning to be very disturbed by what he was seeing.  
  
The implications, of course, were obvious. Haldir had seen elves make fools of themselves over Elrond--the Valar knew he had done the same himself--and had laughed at the stories Erestor told him of the wagers regularly made over how many besotted elves would follow Elrond around the grounds on this or that feast day. Erestor had sworn that, on one solstice eve, it had looked like a parade was winding its way through the grounds of Imladris, just because Elrond had decided to take a moonlit stroll and, of course, his rather large coterie of admirers had followed along behind like goslings after a mother duck. The story had seemed amusing at the time, but now it was taking on the quality of a nightmare. No! He must be imagining things. Gildor had lived at Imladris for years and had served Elrond for much of his young life. Why would he suddenly decide to be attracted to him now?   
  
Yet, as the morning dragged on, Haldir became steadily more convinced that that was exactly what had happened. Gildor dogged Elrond's footsteps as he went to the sickrooms to attend to his charges, dropped a bouquet of flowers off at Elwyyda's rooms, where he spent some time conversing with the little dwarf, then visited the library for a book before strolling into the lord and lady's private garden to read in the sun. All the time, Gildor's eyes rarely left Elrond's face, and Haldir at last had to conclude, as he cursed the scratchy bush above him, that his lover really was infatuated with the handsome elf lord.  
  
Haldir attempted to avoid panic by reassuring himself that, although Elrond often played with whatever elf caught his eye, he did not seem to grow overly attached to any of them. After noticing Haldir's growing infatuation, Erestor had even gently pointed this out, attempting, he supposed, to spare him disappointment. "We have been together for longer than you've been alive, young one, but even with me, Elrond remains . . . well, he guards his heart well, shall we say."  
  
"Doesn't that trouble you?" Haldir had been so infatuated at the time that it had been with the great surprise that he saw Erestor chuckle in apparently genuine amusement. "Not really. In fact, I often think that is the greatest advantage we give each other--that our pleasure is uncomplicated by such things. But have a care, Haldir, for it is only when you lose your heart to someone that their actions have the power to hurt you."  
  
Haldir thought about that conversation now, as he felt his heart battered every time Gildor moved into another position, each designed to bring him closer to the object of his affection. How could he blame him? There were hundreds, possibly thousands, of elves who had fallen under Elrond's sway through the millennia, with his own name one of the most recent on the list. Ah, but there was a difference, some part of his mind interjected, for you were not involved with anyone when you first saw Elrond. There was no lover to disappoint, no one's heart to break. But Gildor was betraying him, and just after they had spent much of the previous day making exquisite love . . .   
  
But, Haldir suddenly realised, hadn't there been something almost desperate in Gildor's touch? His usually gentle and somewhat shy lover had been more possessive and demanding than usual, and although Haldir had greatly enjoyed it at the time, he now wondered if Gildor's reaction had been driven more by panic than passion. What if their experiences with Elrond the previous day had made Gildor see him in a different light? What if, by claiming Haldir in such an ardent fashion, he had merely been attempting to drive thoughts of Elrond from his mind, and to deny the growing attraction? It all made perfect, horrible sense, and Haldir suddenly wanted nothing more than to attack something, starting with the benighted bush above him, which had just stuck another thorn in his calf, and proceeding on from there.  
  
How could Gildor do this to him? Didn't they have something special? Didn't he feel anything for him? Hadn't he said . . . Haldir stopped short at the realisation that Gildor had never actually said that he loved him. He had given enough indications that Haldir had never before thought about it, but it was a fact. Of course, he had never said it to Gildor either, but he had shown him, hadn't he? Perhaps, Haldir thought in growing dismay, he had not been as clear as he thought. Maybe that was why Gildor preferred to spend his time with Elwyyda or skulking after Elrond instead of with him. Could all this be his fault, for taking his lover for granted?   
  
Haldir pondered this new and very strange concept. True, Gildor had shown a preference for romantic gestures--take that ridiculous first kiss anniversary celebration which, despite its absurdity, had been strangely touching, if only because of the amount of time and effort it must have taken. And keeping that ratty old tunic for so long, and sending him all those flowers . . . Haldir forced himself to stop that train of thought before he became any more morose. In any case, Gildor had not seemed upset that he had not returned his gestures, although perhaps that was because Haldir had been in no position to do so propped up in bed with a broken ankle. Still, maybe Gildor found him inadequate romantically, and had therefore been more vulnerable to Elrond's charms than he would have been otherwise.  
  
Haldir found himself a bit at a loss. He had never before had to worry about satisfying a lover, other than in bed. People practically lined up for his affections, so why would he have to employ those sentimental gestures he occasionally noticed other elves using? He had always thought them inane and assumed that the only elves who bothered with such things were inadequate lovers who had no other options to keep their companion's attention. Now he suddenly wished he had taken more notice of what people in long-term relationships did to keep their admirers happy. It was a very bad sign that Gildor had drifted so far from him as to be following Elrond about, but this . . . infatuation . . . of his was new and there might still be time.   
  
Haldir noticed a rustling in the bushes behind him, something he would have paid more attention to earlier had he not been so lost in his thoughts. He could not draw a weapon as he was not armed, but this was the heart of Caras Galadhon and therefore it was unlikely that he was facing a threat. Slowly crawling backwards into a clutch of rose bushes--wonderful, more thorns--he managed to circle the pair hidden behind a bench to his left. When he recognized them, he smiled a little evilly. These two owed him a huge favour, and were about to pay up.  
  
* * *  
  
"You want to do what?" Orophin decided that either Haldir was joking or else he had gone mad. "Who are you and what did you do with my brother?"  
  
"Very funny. Do you help me with this, and thereby erase from my mind your previous appalling lack of judgment, or would you rather await your fate when we return to the fences?"  
  
Orophin smiled a little weakly. He was well aware that Haldir could make him miserable for an extended time if he chose, so the prospect of getting off so lightly was highly appealing. Yet his request seemed so odd that Orophin could not stop himself from shaking his head in amazement. Haldir had NEVER gone to such lengths for anyone. He must really care for Gildor, then, and Orophin's usual love for his brothers came flooding back, overcoming the trepidation with which he had recently viewed Haldir. If his brother was actually serious about Gildor, Orophin would do everything he could to help him. Judging by his expression, Rumil felt the same, and Elladan's eyes glittered in the way that denoted excitement and mischief being planned.   
  
They were seated around a table in Haldir's bedroom in the family talan, as Gildor's room at the palace would be too risky for such a conversation. All three had jumped at the chance to help instruct Haldir in the fine art of romance, although the idea seemed absurd to Orophin who, like most of Lorien, viewed Haldir as something of a sex god. He had lost count of the number of lovers his brother had had--surely he must know the basics of winning someone's regard by now! The idea of teaching their haughty brother something obviously delighted Rumil, however, and he plunged in with enthusiasm. "It's about time you woke up," Rumil informed him, "I was beginning to wonder what it would take to make you see that he's the best thing that's ever happened to you. I can't believe he's serious about Lord Elrond, though. Gildor obviously adores you--his whole face lights up whenever you're so much as mentioned!"  
  
Haldir looked, Orophin saw with shock, absolutely dejected. "Once, perhaps, but you were there this morning. Why else would he follow Elrond about?"  
  
Orophin agreed that it looked bad. He could also attest to the strange attraction of these Peredhils, although he had never thought about Elrond in such a way. The very idea was rather frightening, akin to being attracted to Lord Celeborn. Orophin felt a frisson of fear make its way down his spine at the very idea. No doubt the elders of their kind were very handsome, but he preferred a lover who he could view as something of an equal, and who could not eavesdrop on his thoughts whenever he felt like it. No, the elders were far better off admired from afar in his opinion, but then, Gildor would not be the first elf to disagree with that attitude.   
  
"I still think it's impossible--there must be another explanation." Rumil looked adamant, and Elladan echoed the thought.  
  
"Father does take lovers from time to time, but he never becomes involved with those under his direct control or far beneath him in stature. I suppose he feels that it would be difficult for them to be honest in the relationship--to tell him when they tired of it, or did not want to participate in a particular . .. activity. Gildor is both of those things--his family is a brave one, but not of any particular wealth or standing, and he is part of father's elite guard. Forgive me, but he also doesn't seem very . . . experienced . . . as father's other conquests have always been. I just can't see him responding to any advances Gildor might make, other than with a polite refusal, of course."  
  
"That isn't point. Lord Elrond might not be interested in Gildor, but the opposite obviously isn't true. If he is unhappy with . . . with our relationship, when Elrond rejects him, he'll simply go find someone else." Haldir looked so distressed that Orophin briefly wanted to hug him as he had when they were children, but somehow did not think that would be well received, especially with an audience. Haldir had always had difficulty expressing his feelings, which was probably why he had trouble with something as simple as showing his love for Gildor. Orophin wondered if he had ever even said it, and thought about mentioning that that might be a good place to start, but decided to wait and hope someone else brought it up. Haldir was uncharacteristically vulnerable at the moment, and he didn't want to risk hurting him by insinuating that this was somehow his fault, even if that might be the truth.  
  
"That won't happen. We won't let it happen." Orophin wished he felt as certain as Rumil, but he nodded in agreement with his brother's sentiment and the group set to work. After a short time, Orophin decided two things: first, that he wouldn't have missed this for worlds, and second, never give Rumil a challenge. His brother could be positively scary when his imagination was allowed free reign.  
  
"First things first," Rumil commented, pulling a piece of parchment and a quill from a bag, "Tell us everything you know about his preferences." At Haldir's scandalized expression, Rumil laughed. "No, not THOSE preferences--I think we can safely leave that to you. I meant, what kind of food, wine, bath oil, flowers, etc. does he like?" When Haldir stared at him blankly, Rumil sighed and muttered something about wondering how he had ever acquired his reputation. "THINK, brother, you must have noticed these things, even if you didn't remark on them at the time."  
  
Over a period of almost two hours, Rumil ruthlessly grilled Haldir on every meal, walk in a garden, and conversation he had ever had with Gildor. The quill flew as Rumil made copious notes, amazing Orophin with his thoroughness. He couldn't decide if it was going to be a very lucky or very overwhelmed elf maid who ended up as the object of his brother's affection one of these days.  
  
"Now, to dress." Rumil paused and tapped the end of his quill against the parchment, obviously thinking hard. "No, you don't have anything in your wardrobe that's likely to do."  
  
Haldir, who had begun looking somewhat grumpy as time dragged on, seemed annoyed. "This is ridiculous. What difference does it make what I wear?"  
  
Rumil gave his brother a withering look. "Haven't you been paying attention at all? This isn't about YOU, it is about GILDOR, and clothes obviously have meaning for him. Look at his insistence on you wearing matching tunics the night of King Thranduil's reception. Look at the replica he had made of the first present you ever gave him . . . and probably the only one, too. Stop thinking about yourself and concentrate on what will make Gildor happy, assuming you really meant it when you said you want to keep him."   
  
Orophin cringed, awaiting the inevitable explosion, for elves of good sense did not talk to Haldir that way. But to his amazement it never came. Instead, Haldir looked abashed, and after a moment meekly inquired what, exactly, he should wear.  
  
"I don't know," Rumil said flatly, obviously still rather miffed. "Something that says, 'this is a special occasion for which I went to a great deal of trouble to please you.' Something that says 'you're important to me.' Something beautiful, unusual, seductive and memorable . . . although where we are supposed to find such an item on such short notice, I have no idea."  
  
Orophin brightened. He had been feeling a little left out of the conversation, unable to improve on any of the ideas Elladan and Rumil had been bantering about. Now, however, he had an inspiration. Yes, he thought, looking at Haldir critically, it should look perfect on him, and if anyone complained about their borrowing it, well, he could always blame Elladan, couldn't he? "Elladan and I know of something."  
  
Elladan, sitting across from him, looked puzzled for a moment, then burst out laughing. "Oh, yes," he gasped, "we certainly do!"  
  
* * *  
  
Gildor wearily returned to his rooms after one of the longest days he could remember. He had followed Elrond about hoping for some sign from the High King about his situation--either good or ill--or for an indication that Lady Galadriel had intervened, but had received neither. However, he had managed to get close enough several times to see that Elrond's eyes remained a bright, clear blue, indicating that Gil-Galad was still in residence, so to speak.   
  
Gildor was tormented by indecision over whether that was a good thing or not, and he was equally unsure if he had done his duty to his overlord by contacting the lady. Wasn't that pushing off his responsibility onto someone else? What if Elrond managed to fool even her? Gildor had always heard it said that none could deceive the lady about anything, but then, the same was said of Lord Elrond. What if he managed to convince her that Gildor had been mistaken? If anyone could do it, Elrond could, and if that was the case, what in Arda was there left to do? It was in a state of confusion and despondency that Gildor pushed open his door, wishing for nothing so much as a chance to talk this over with Haldir, but unwilling to share the guilt. This was not his lover's problem, and he shouldn't be burdened with it.   
  
The room was dark as the sun had set some time before. Gildor wondered if Haldir had had dinner sent up to him, because some delightful aroma still lingered on the air. He had been too busy following Elrond to remember to eat, and now wished he had thought to stop by the kitchens. He was too tired and heartsick, however, to go all the way down there now.  
  
Suddenly, a taper flared across the room and a large, standing candelabra sprang to life. Gildor looked about the illuminated room in considerable amazement. What was all this? In the centre of his chamber, where the table and bed had once been, a huge tub had been placed. All about it candles were being lit as Haldir moved gracefully from point to point. Floating in the scented water were crimson rose petals and more candles shaped like lily flowers. The bed had been relocated to one side of the room and festooned with swathes of white gauzy fabric intertwined with ropes of flowers. Along the opposite wall, the table glowed with more flowers, bright cutlery and a number of covered dishes, which explained the mouthwatering aroma permeating the room. Gildor noticed all this in an instant, with the help of Erestor's long training, but none of these delights were what held his attention, for Haldir was . . . Gildor decided he really needed to sit down.   
  
The vision in gold did not give him the opportunity, however, but finished lighting the rest of the candles and moved to kneel at Gildor's feet, helping him out of the sandals he had taken to wearing lately in lieu of his usual heavy boots. Haldir was wearing sandals, too, Gildor noticed, although his were gold to match the . . . tunic, for lack of a better word, that covered only half his chest and fell barely halfway down his thighs. Where did he find such an outfit? Gildor had never seen anything even remotely like it, but decided swiftly that he approved very much. Haldir's long hair fell unbound down his almost bare back, shimmering in the candlelight like spun gold as he knelt at Gildor's feet, lightly caressing his arches as he removed the shoes. Gildor would normally have asked him to stand, have insisted that he could take off his own sandals, but the whole moment had a feeling of unreality about it, and he was quite simply too stunned to speak.   
  
"This way," Haldir murmured a moment later, pulling Gildor towards the steaming bath where he slowly divested him of his clothes and immersed him in the warm water. It felt wonderful on his tired limbs, and Gildor could almost feel the tension falling away from him. What was that fragrance? Gildor decided after a moment that it was too complex to analyse--some wonderful mix of scented oils and herbs that served to relax him fully when combined with the warmth of the water.   
  
Gildor fully expected his lover to join him so that he could share the pleasure, but apparently Haldir had a different plan. Taking up a large sponge, he proceeded to give him the most sensual bath he had ever had, trailing the soft mass over Gildor's entire body while remaining outside the pool himself. Gildor had never been bathed before, and was at first intensely shy about it. He knew that made no sense, considering how intimate he and Haldir had been on other occasions, but there was something decadent about the way his limbs were lifted and slowly caressed by the sponge, and something overwhelmingly sensual in the intensity with which Haldir looked at him as he lazily drew the soapy mass across his chest, that left Gildor gasping. When his lover trailed the scented sponge down his back and between his buttocks, and when he shortly thereafter gently wrapped it about Gildor's by now fully hard arousal, all he could think about was dragging Haldir into the pool and making passionate love to him, preferably several times. He sensed that Haldir wasn't ready for that yet, however, as he had obviously gone to immense trouble to arrange the evening and undoubtedly had an order of events planned. Nonetheless, Gildor was almost relieved when Haldir decided he was clean enough and left him to soak while he busied himself collecting plates, cups and bottles from the beautiful collection on the table.   
  
Gildor started to protest when Haldir began feeding him, feeling somehow as if he did not deserve such attention, but Haldir kept him too occupied to do so. The fruit was dipped in the mixture of honey and spices that Gildor particularly liked and which was a Lorien specialty, and with it he was offered sips of his favourite Berdruskan wine. "Wherever did you find this?," Gildor asked in amazement, after Haldir held the glass to his lips the first time. "I thought I used the last for our celebration."  
  
Haldir merely smiled. "Oh, the chef always keeps a few bottles back for his own use. He owed Rumil a favour, so we managed to pry one away from him."  
  
"We?" Gildor was overwhelmed that Haldir would go to such lengths for him,   
  
even to the point of asking for his brother's help. Haldir was so self-sufficient, and never leaned on anyone for anything. The idea that he would do so just to please him made Gildor almost light-headed with happiness.   
  
Haldir looked strangely shy. "I . . . hope you don't mind that I asked him about a few things. I wanted everything to be perfect, and Rumil . . . helped . . . with some of the details."  
  
Gildor couldn't think of words to convey his feelings, so he simply drew Haldir into a deep kiss. His lover tasted of honey and the dark flavour of the wine, and Gildor thought him by far the most delicious thing he had tried all night. "Join me? I want to show you how much all this means . . . " He felt shy, having so much attention lavished on him, especially when he had not anticipated any of it. He wanted to reciprocate, but Haldir smilingly declined.  
  
"Tonight is about you, not me," he replied softly, and picked up another platter. By the time the many course meal was completed, the water had become slightly tepid. Haldir helped Gildor out of the bath, enveloping him in a soft white robe after rubbing a soft towel all over him. Gildor was still in a haze of disbelief, but was also becoming desperate to touch his lover. Haldir's hands on him in the bath and the brushes of his fingers against Gildor's lips as he fed him had aroused him to an unbelievable degree. He was therefore very disappointed when Haldir did not immediately allow him to pull him into an embrace once they fell into bed together. "No, not yet. First, I have something for you."  
  
Gildor sat in giddy disbelief as Haldir felt about under the satin sheets, fully expecting to wake up at any moment. This just could not be real . . . could it? He took with trembling hands the large package Haldir gave him, wondering what it could possibly be. He briefly panicked for a moment at the thought that he had forgotten some special occasion, but a fast perusal of their past relationship reassured him. He did not know why Haldir was doing this, but decided not to question his luck. He carefully opened the beautiful package; when the wrappings fell away, he could only sit and stare, desperately trying not to cry.   
  
"Do you like them?" Haldir looked a little apprehensive, as if he actually thought the answer might be no. "I remembered that you always seemed to admire mine, and thought . . . "  
  
Gildor let his fingers slowly caress the wood of the finely made Galadrim bow before him. Along with it was a skillfully wrought quiver of buttery soft leather that matched the one Haldir always used. Both were exquisite, and by far the nicest set Gildor had ever owned. He would, of course, have liked them just as much whatever they had looked like, simply because Haldir had given them, but the fact that his lover had noticed the admiring glances Gildor had always had for his weapons completely overwhelmed him.   
  
"I can have them altered, if you like. I thought about having your name inscribed, as some of the Galadrim like to do, although it's hardly needed as we can always tell our own weapon from . . . " He never finished the sentiment, for Gildor could contain himself no more and, having set the prized items carefully aside, drew Haldir into a long kiss, running delighted hands over that silk clad form. Wherever Haldir had found that little outfit, Gildor only hoped they had more. He would love to buy him a whole wardrobe in every colour of the rainbow. "I take it you do like them," Haldir teased when they broke apart at last. Gildor still couldn't reply, but his eyes must have spoken for him. "Well, that's good," Haldir said, seeming a little at a loss himself. "I, er, I'm glad they please you. I do want to make you happy, you know, Gildor, I just don't always . . . well, I realised recently that I don't . . . that is, that I haven't . . . what I mean to say . . . "  
  
"It's all right, Haldir," Gildor whispered, kissing his lover's throat and wishing he could taste all of him at once. There were no need for words between them; what words could describe what he felt anyway?"  
  
"No, no it isn't all right." Haldir stopped his caresses by pulling him into a tight embrace. "Gildor," he spoke softly into his ear, "I need you to know that I've never felt this way before, not about anyone. I . . . well, I think, no I KNOW, that I love you. If you left me, I don't know how I would . . . not that I want you to think you have to stay with me if that isn't what you want, but what I said before, all that tripe about who leads and who follows . . . I know now that I don't care. I only want you with me . . . forever."  
  
Gildor pulled away so that he could look his lover in the eyes. He felt like fainting, or perhaps levitating off the bed in sheer bliss, he wasn't sure which. He had dreamed about this, prayed for it, but never really thought he would live long enough to see it. He had decided to be happy with whatever kind of relationship Haldir was willing to have, and had carefully avoided thinking what would happen when his lover tired of him. That Haldir was really saying that that would never occur left Gildor so stunned that he simply sat there, looking at him in wonder as the seconds ticked by. It was only when a look of fear entered his lover's gaze that Gildor snapped out of it, realising that he was taking too long to answer. "I would be honoured to bond with you, Haldir. Whenever you say; however you want. I have loved you since I first saw you. Nothing could make me happier than the thought of never having to part from you."   
  
As Haldir pulled him into a kiss that combined passion with overwhelming joy, Gildor decided that, if this was a dream, let him sleep forever.  
  
TBC 


	36. Chapter ThirtySix

Title: Wild Justice 36/?   
  
Author: Rune Dancer  
  
Rating: R   
  
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin  
  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline.   
  
Warnings: BDSM. For those of you who have been following this story, you remember what comes after a vanilla chapter, don't you? Fuzzy consent warning.   
  
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused.   
  
* * *  
  
Erestor regarded with serious concern the orc they had acquired as a guide. True, the creature seemed to know his way through the mines, but that did not mean that he was taking them where they wanted to go. After his capture, Erestor had warned him that, should he lead them into a trap, he would be the first to die, and he had nodded in comprehension. It did not reassure him greatly. It was true that most of the creatures were totally without understanding of anything other than self-interest, but there was the odd example that retained, however vaguely, some conception of honour from their distant elvish ancestors. It would be just their luck to run across such a one now, who was willing to risk his life to do what he regarded as his duty. Erestor kept a tight rein on the leash they had fashioned from the creature's own belt to make sure that he did not suddenly disappear down a side tunnel, yet he was nonetheless uneasy.  
  
Glorfindel wasn't in much better shape, he noticed, after glancing quickly at his grim faced companion. He had seemed increasingly jumpy since they entered the caves, and Erestor didn't think it was simply his usual reaction to being underground. He knew his friend wished that they had left Elrohir in Lorien, tied to a bed or chained in the cellar if need be to insure his safety, and none of Erestor's comments that he was as safe as possible this close to the orcs' lair and quite capable of defending himself made any difference. Secretly, Erestor agreed that there was cause for concern--in neither lifetime had Elrohir been the type to ignore a challenge, and this sortie into the mines was taking much longer than they had planned. Suddenly, leaving him in the care of three invalids did not seem like such a good idea. Erestor could only hope his former student would do the sane thing for once and stay put.  
  
Erestor wished he had something to take his mind off such thoughts, but the blank, dark walls that surrounded them provided little in the way of a distraction. Inevitably, his mind went in the very direction he didn't want it to go, and conjured up images he had been trying desperately to ignore. Erestor shivered slightly, then urged on his captive when the orc stopped in response to his action, in fear that it had done something wrong. He grimaced at the thought that the little creature could not possibly be any more terrified than he was himself. His uneasiness, which had been growing ever since they rescued the High King, had gone off the charts when they entered the caves. The knowledge that Gil-Galad still lived had immediately begged the question of who else might have survived those long years, bringing up the possibility that the spectre he had long thought dead might live to haunt him still.  
  
No! It was ridiculous to torment himself like this. There was absolutely no reason to assume that one of the surviving elves had to be Oropher. True, the High King had somehow lasted out the centuries, but even he had been on the verge of death when they found him. Oropher had probably died in battle and, if by some miracle he had not done so, had expired in the mines. Yet, if anyone could endure a traumatic experience somehow intact, it would be Oropher; if nothing else, he would have had his considerable capacity for hatred to sustain him. And Erestor was quite well aware of where that hatred centered.  
  
For the thousandth time he wished there was some way to contact one's former self with words of caution or warning. If he had been able to do so, however, he doubted it was words he would have employed on his younger, cockier self; a sharp blow to his head might have had more effect. For, after all, Oropher had tried words, hadn't he? And look what they had won him.  
  
** "You cannot actually mean to stay with him, Erestor! After what he did to us--to all the Sindar?"  
  
"I do not recall Elrond doing anything to you, Oropher, or have I missed something?" Erestor waved a negligent hand, the other being occupied with his wine glass. "If you wish to take insult at the High King's actions, very well, although one could argue that Arenal rejected him, not the other way around. But to speak in such a fashion about dear Elrond . . . well, that is hardly fair, is it?"  
  
Erestor savoured the wine, some of the best in Gil-Galad's cellars, and watched with delight as Oropher tried to control his temper. The handsome Sindarin noble had come to his chambers after dinner and spent the better part of an hour trying to convince him not to follow his stated course and join Elrond's household. Many of the other Sindar had chosen to link up with Oropher on his scheme to erect a purely Sindarin kingdom, but others were not so sure. Some had feelings of loyalty to the High King or ties of marriage or friendship to various Noldorin households. Some just did not care for Oropher's arrogance or his bigoted attitudes. He had been making valiant attempts to overcome their reluctance, and had won many to his side with a combination of flattery and high-sounding principles. None of it had any meaning for Erestor, but the chance afforded by Oropher's determination to leave none of their people in Lindon was not one to be missed.   
  
Erestor had expected his distant cousin's visit, having insured that a casual comment about where his loyalties lay would be overheard at dinner, and he had dressed accordingly. He had waited years for an opportunity to take what he wanted from the haughty noble, and did not intend to waste the opportunity. His velvet robe matched the colour of the wine in his glass and was open in the front, baring much of his chest to view. Underneath he wore only a loincloth, and had high hopes of not needing even that for much longer. His hair tumbled in an unbound raven wave down his back and over his shoulders, and he had taken the time to brush it to a high shine. Erestor knew he looked well, and was almost amused that Oropher was blind both to his attraction and to what his carefully studied appearance meant for him.   
  
"Elrond!" Oropher almost spat the name. Erestor wondered who it was his cousin hated more, the High King or the king's chief councilor. He supposed they were about equally despised. "That little whore! He was the one who persuaded the king to turn away from Arenal, to shame her and her entire family before the whole court! I do not know how you can even bear to speak his name, much less to contemplate entering his service. Where is your pride, your self-respect? Erestor," he leaned forward in his chair, his face aglow with what Erestor supposed was meant to be appealing earnestness. He found much attractive in that face, but not, he thought with an inner smile, quite in the way his cousin probably expected. "Think what we could accomplish, in a realm of our own! And you would have a place of honour in my kingdom, make no mistake. I could appreciate a councilor such as you and reward you well."  
  
Erestor allowed his smile to become visible, now that they had finally reached the point. "Reward?"  
  
"Indeed yes!" Oropher leaned even closer, his long blond hair brushing accidentally against Erestor's bare knee, but those serious green eyes showed no awareness of the turmoil the simple gesture had caused in his companion. "You can name your price--titles, lands, anything you want! Just say you'll come with me." He took Erestor's long, pale hand in one of his large suntanned ones as he pleaded. Erestor barely managed to avoid licking his lips--Oropher was practically begging, just like in his many fantasies. This was perfect. "You cannot seriously think Elrond will reward you half as well as I."  
  
Erestor drained his glass. It was time to get to the point. "There are many types of rewards," he commented, setting the delicate goblet down on the table at his elbow. He would hate to see it shattered when things became more interesting shortly. "You offer titles and lands. I already have the former--indeed, my branch of the family has never been considered inferior to yours, so I am rather at a loss as to what titles you think you can bestow that would have any meaning for me. Lands and wealth are of equally little value. My parents left me quite well off when they returned to Valinor, as you must know. I have all of my wants and most of my caprices provided for already; there is nothing you have said so far that tempts me."  
  
"But . . . but then, what could Elrond possibly offer you? And never say you follow him out of loyalty! You barely even know him!"  
  
"I do not think loyalty is precisely the issue, no." In truth, Erestor thought Elrond a much more stable choice than Oropher, who had a somewhat fanatical gleam in his eye at times and was far too certain of his own superiority. However, he was not about to say so at the moment.   
  
"Then what is the attraction? What do you hope to gain from him that you could not get from your own people--from me?"  
  
Ah, finally. Erestor brought Oropher's hand to his lips and, as his cousin watched with bewildered eyes, slowly took the thumb into his mouth, letting his tongue curl about the rigid digit as his teeth lightly abraded it. His companion was so shocked that he allowed him to continue for perhaps thirty seconds before wrenching his hand away. His eyes were stunned and his breathing laboured as he regarded him a moment later from a safer distance halfway across the room. "What in Mandos do you think you're doing?"  
  
Erestor sighed and sat back, letting his robe fall open the rest of the way as he did so to reveal his state of undress. He would have been disappointed had Oropher made this too easy; a struggle was expected and even welcomed--as long as it didn't drag on too long. "I will be happy to explain, cousin. But allow me to first clarify why you are really here. We have never been what anyone would describe as close. Why, then, are you so disturbed at the thought that I might pledge my service to Elrond? You despise him, true, but that is not the real issue, is it?"   
  
Erestor managed to keep his lip from curling at the look of surprise on Oropher's features; his cousin underestimated everyone's intelligence, and that had always been especially true in Erestor's case. Just because politics held little interest for him did not mean that he was unable to follow the convoluted pathways of his kinsman's mind when he had good reason. "You don't care if I enter Elrond's household or not, but the many elves whose decisions might be swayed by mine--yes, I think you do care about them. After all, if your own cousin, the head of the other main branch of your house, were to openly stand against this new scheme of yours, how many of our people might reconsider their positions? This isn't about one elf or even the few dozen that I directly control. This is about the success of your entire scheme."  
  
Erestor rose and crossed casually to the bed, draping himself over it invitingly. "So, if you want my support, you'll have to make a much better offer than that."  
  
Oropher's face looked for a moment as if it couldn't decide whether to be outraged or disgusted, but ultimately disgust won. "So this is what that slut Elrond promised you, or has he given it to you already? Do you pleasure him when the king is too busy to be bothered, or do you perhaps join them in their debauchery?"  
  
Erestor almost lost his concentration at the delightful image Oropher's words invoked. But alas, it didn't seem likely that he would find himself sharing a bed with the king and his unofficial consort any time soon. Elrond and Gil-Galad thought they were being discreet, but an elfling could see how besotted they were with each other. Unfortunate, but they weren't his real interest anyway. "Not yet, but one can always hope." He smiled at Oropher's shocked expression. One of the very many things that had always annoyed him about his cousin--even as it strangely attracted him--was his prudery. What a great pleasure it would be to destroy that proud complacency, but he had to obtain his consent first. "You can sneer all you like, Oropher, it matters little to me. But if you hope to win my allegiance, you'll have to do a bit more than that."  
  
"You are mad as well as depraved!" Oropher turned on his heel and strode for the door, his every gesture one of outraged propriety.  
  
"Perhaps." Erestor noticed that, although his cousin had reached the door and even clasped the handle, he did not yet turn it. "But that does not lessen the truth in my words. You need me if you hope for your plan to succeed. Fortunately, there's also a little something I need from you."  
  
Oropher turned around once more, his face purpling. "You . . . you would actually suggest . . . you know I do not . . . that males are not . . . "  
  
"Of course. That's half the fun," Erestor told him truthfully. "Oh, don't worry. I don't want you permanently. Just for tonight." He ran a hand over the satin sheets he had had the servants put on his bed. He was regretting the choice, as they did tend to be rather slippery, but there was nothing to be done about it now. "If you please me, then we can talk about my joining your little scheme and lending you all the support that entails. Otherwise . . . well, Elrond is very fair . . . and worth waiting for."  
  
"He isn't even a full elf!"   
  
"He also isn't the point. Do we have a deal or not?" As Oropher continued to stand by the door, a look of deep revulsion on his features, Erestor sighed. "I don't have all night, cousin. If you refuse to oblige me, I still do not intend to spend the evening alone and will have to make other arrangements. So what is it to be?" He smiled at the inward struggle that was almost perfectly mirrored on his cousin's face. He had gambled that Oropher's great pride would require that he do everything within his power to see that his plan succeeded as, once it had been announced, he would not feel able to remain as a mere subject in Lindon. He had already made himself odious among most of the rest of the elvish community; having gambled his future on a kingdom of his own, he would have nowhere left to go if he failed to mass enough support. Oh yes, he had him, Erestor thought with glee, and Oropher knew it. "Do you agree or not?" Erestor tired of the hunt. He had made his preparations like any good hunter and he wanted his reward.   
  
"If--and I only say if--I was to agree . . . do you swear to join me and use every means in your power to aid me?"  
  
Erestor shrugged. "That will depend on my level of satisfaction with your performance." He ran an appreciative glance over Oropher's fair form. Haughty and swaggering his cousin might be, but there was no doubt that he had reason to feel vain. He was one of the most handsome elves of Erestor's acquaintance, and he well remembered their first meeting as little more than elflings. Oropher had all but struck him dumb when leaving the family bathing pool, seeming like some type of golden god, with sunlight caressing the perfect lines of his body and that bright mane falling unbound almost to his knees. Erestor had wanted him with a helpless passion from that moment, but Oropher's preference for the ladies was soon made more than evident. He had treated his younger relation with the greatest condescension, when he was not teasing him unmercifully. But  
  
although it had been years since that ridiculous infatuation, Erestor's feelings had never entirely faded. Something had told him to bide his time, and wait for events to someday bring him all he desired. But his patience was not endless. "Make up your mind, Oropher, I grow tired of your maidenly reluctance. You've had your share of experience through the years, if even half the rumours are true. You won't find this so very different."  
  
"Then, you'll let me take you?"   
  
"Of course," Erestor smiled at Oropher's look of relief. Just as soon as I've had you, he added silently.  
  
Erestor managed somehow to keep his expression vaguely bored as Oropher studied him. He had no intention of giving away just how much he wanted this. Accustomed to easy conquests, Erestor had been unprepared for how Oropher's unattainable position had affected him. The longer he was forced to wait, the higher his passion flared. He could not afford for Oropher to know that, however, as his wily cousin would no doubt manage to turn it to his advantage. "Come Oropher," Erestor urged, shrugging out of his robe as he spoke, "make up your mind." He gloried in having Oropher's eyes on him with more than just indifference for a change. The ornate court robes, with their long sleeves, heavy brocaded fabrics and high collars, gave little indication of it, but Erestor knew his form to be pleasing; he'd had enough elves tell him so through the years. "Is my courageous cousin daunted by such a simple thing?"  
  
Oropher slowly approached the bed, his face wary. "How do I know you'll keep your word?"  
  
Erestor smiled as reassuringly as he could manage. "When have I ever lied to you, cousin? Now stop stalling and come here." Oropher looked as torn as he probably felt, but Erestor gave him no time to think of a way out of his predicament. Instead he reached up and, with a sudden movement that caught Oropher off guard, dragged him into bed. "You wear too many clothes, cousin," he murmured, divesting Oropher of his thick outer robe and tossing it over a nearby chair. Underneath was only a thin silk shift that revealed more than it concealed. Oropher did not flinch as Erestor's hands ran appreciatively over his body, reveling in finally having those smooth muscles under his control. He knew this would be his only opportunity to experience the sensation and he intended to enjoy every second of it.  
  
The candlelight served the same purpose as the sun all those many years ago, changing Oropher's skin to burnished gold as Erestor pulled the thin shift from his body, baring it to view. "You are truly beautiful, cousin," he breathed, and smiled to see Oropher relax slightly. "Trust me, you'll enjoy this." Burying his hands in that golden mane that he had so longed to touch, Erestor pulled him up for a passionate kiss, dropping his hands to caress the broad shoulders before him as his tongue sought entrance to his reluctant partner's mouth. Oropher eventually opened to him and Erestor immediately deepened the kiss, enjoying the feeling of control over the powerful elf in his arms. He eventually dipped his lips to savour the strong throat and taste the well-muscled chest, noting with pleasure that his partner's heart rate had definitely sped up.   
  
Let him try to feel nothing, Erestor thought as he bit lightly into a dark gold nipple; he had centuries of practice on his side and he quickly learned exactly how Oropher liked to be touched. Within moments that beautiful skin was slick with sweat and the usually emerald eyes were deep jade from passion. "Give in to me, Oropher," Erestor urged, as he kissed and nibbled his way along his partner's powerful inner thighs, sensing the tenseness in the body beneath him. "Why fight what you feel? You can waste time that way if you like, but we both know you want this." Erestor saw with satisfaction that he wasn't lying; his cousin's interest in the proceedings was more than obvious. Taking that as a signal to advance to the next level, he slid his tongue slowly up one side of his partner's arousal, savouring his scent and the velvety softness of the skin   
  
that was stretched tightly over his hardening length.   
  
Oropher was obviously attempting to deny his emotions, but Erestor's attentions soon had him writhing in need. Encouraged, Erestor engulfed him completely, using all his skill to tease him beyond the possibility to control. He considered the salty taste of Oropher's capitulation a personal victory, and swallowed it greedily, never breaking eye contact with the stunned looking elf under him.  
  
"There, that wasn't so . . . unpleasant . . . was it?" Erestor was not surprised when Oropher didn't answer. He would probably need a few minutes to recover enough to have a coherent thought, and Erestor did not intend to waste those precious seconds of confusion. Sliding his hands up his partner's unresisting arms, Erestor slowly pushed them over his head until he could   
  
slip Oropher's wrists through bonds hidden under the pillows at the head of the bed. The next instant, he seized the lubricant from his bedside table with one hand while forcing Oropher's thighs further apart with the other. Before his lover could protest or even fully understand what was happening, Erestor positioned himself and a second later breached his entrance with a powerful thrust.   
  
By the gods but he was a tight fit! Erestor had not anticipated such a struggle at the very beginning, and his partner did not help matters by bucking and twisting beneath him. Oropher almost succeeded in throwing him off, but after a brief struggle, Erestor managed to get a grip on his cousin's hips. He forced him to lie still long enough to fully sheath himself in his lover's warmth.   
  
It was even better than he had dreamed. Oropher cursed and fought, but Erestor ignored him, concentrating on enjoying the powerful flood of adrenaline coursing through him at the challenge. Oropher's arms were corded with his attempts to free himself, but the manacles were strong and Erestor continued his deep strokes into the struggling body with the assurance that they would hold. He located his partner's prostate with the ease of much practice and soon his cousin's formerly satiated erection was taking an active interest in the proceedings once again. Erestor ignored it, however, as there was another matter still to be dealt with. He was not willing just to physically master his partner; he had waited far too long for that alone to satisfy him. "Tell me you want this, Oropher--admit it!"   
  
"Get off me you depraved, perverted son of an orc! When I get free I'm going to . . . " Erestor silenced him by a particularly strong stroke, and a second later Oropher wrapped his long legs about him, forcing him to plunge even deeper.   
  
Erestor looked down on his cousin's heavily flushed face and passion dark eyes and knew what he had to do, however difficult it might be. Making himself stop moving, he waited until Oropher realised what was happening, then informed him as calmly as possible under the circumstances that, if he wasn't interested in proceeding, they could stop. "I would hate to bore you, cousin."  
  
"Curse you! Curse you until the end of time! You belong with the Noldor, Erestor--you are just as degenerate, just as tainted, just as debauched as they are!"  
  
"As impressed as I am by your vocabulary, especially under the circumstances . . . "  
  
"Curse you!"  
  
"I believe you've already said that. In any case, if you want this to continue, you know what I want to hear." Erestor was barely managing to maintain his sanity and had no idea how much longer he could hold out against sensation. The urge to move was so strong that any moment he would have to give in to it. Yet, although his threat was meaningless, Oropher was in no condition to notice that. "Say it," he urged, fighting to keep his voice steady.  
  
"I . . . "  
  
"SAY IT!" Erestor allowed himself to just barely nudge his partner's prostate, and Oropher shuddered beneath him in an agony of need.  
  
"All right! I'll say it! I want you, Erestor. What's more, I need you, and damn you for using that against me!" Oropher clenched his inner muscles around his lover, trying to force him to continue. "Finish this or I swear there will be a Sindarin kin slaying for the bards to sing about!"  
  
Erestor was more than ready to oblige, massaging his cousin's desperate arousal as he quickly finished emptying himself inside that hot channel. It was possibly the most intense orgasm of his life, and he supposed Oropher must have felt something as well, although he said nothing as Erestor collapsed onto him, boneless and satiated, a few moments later. Some things, Erestor thought dazedly, are worth the wait.  
  
With reluctance, he withdrew himself from his lover's body and went to find something with which to clean them up. He returned to find Oropher regarding him quizzically. "That was . . . not what I expected."   
  
The higher part of Erestor's brain was still lost in a satisfied haze, making it easier to concentrate on minor concerns. He regarded his bed sheets critically, deciding that they would have to be changed before they continued. Luckily he had quite a supply. Perhaps he would need them; considering how he felt at the moment, this could easily turn into much more than one night. "Why, did you surprise yourself and enjoy it?"  
  
Oropher ignored the question. "Are you satisfied now?," he asked eagerly. "You will support me?"  
  
Erestor came down to earth with a jolt. He had actually given the question little prior thought, having far less interest in whether Oropher's plans succeeded or not than in obtaining his long held desire. Now, however, he regarded his cousin with disbelief. Even after the experience they had just shared, all he could think about was politics. He supposed he should have expected it. Oropher's life had been one long scheme, filled with endless plotting in his never-ending struggle for more power and increased prestige. He had never learned how to appreciate what he already had in life, and he never would. No, that would not be Erestor's future.  
  
"I wish you success, of course, cousin," he commented lightly, finishing cleaning himself with clinical efficiency. "And knowing you, I am certain you will manage well enough without my poor support."  
  
"What?" Oropher regarded him through narrowed eyes. "You said you never lied. Is this some kind of test, Erestor?"   
  
Erestor smiled, and tossed the cloth he had been using in Oropher's lap. Oh, no, cousin, he thought grimly, you already failed that. Well, what had he expected? Protestations of undying affection? There was no such thing, he reminded himself. Use or be used; there was nothing else. When would he ever learn that? "No, no test. I just think that Lindon suits me better."  
  
He was not particularly surprised when Oropher suddenly launched himself at him and they ended up in a pile on the floor rug. "You said I would have your allegiance! You said . . . "  
  
"That we would talk about my joining you afterwards. We ARE talking, Oropher, but my decision is no."  
  
"You cannot do this!" Erestor rolled out from under his enraged companion and moved a few steps back toward the bed, to put the knife in his nightstand closer to hand should it be needed. Oropher stayed on the rug, however, consciously or not leaving himself at Erestor's feet. "What do you expect to achieve here? Are the crumbs Elrond allows you so satisfying that you would betray your own people?" Oropher waved an arm wildly. "He will NEVER care about you! None of them will! We are just Sindarin scum to them, good enough to wait at table and to fill their armies, but nothing more. You are a fool, Erestor, if you keep to this course."  
  
Erestor shrugged. "Then I'm a fool." He supposed it was true enough. He did not bother to explain to Oropher that Elrond, despite his undoubted charms, was not the point. His cousin had never been able to understand anything except his own gain; to expect him to see that Erestor had just had the last of his childhood romantic dreams crushed before his eyes would be too much to expect. Trying to explain that Lindon's main attraction was that Oropher would not be in it was hardly likely to be understood or well received. "I will do this much. Let it be thought that my decision is a personal one. Say what you will; I will not refute it. That way, my choice should not be interpreted as opposition to your plans."  
  
Oropher rose to his feet and snatched up his outer robe, throwing it about his shoulders in one swift movement. "Oh, I'll make sure everyone knows exactly what you are, Erestor, never fear. Just remember to stay out of my way. Because the next time I see you," he told him severely, "I'll kill you."**  
  
Erestor stumbled on a rock that had been hidden in the darkness of the caves, but quickly righted himself. He shuddered at the emotions his memories could still cause, and hoped Glorfindel put it and his clumsiness down to the cold. Erestor wondered what his friend would think of him if he knew the real reason for the hatred between Mirkwood and Imladris, for he had never told anyone of his and Oropher's little . . . misunderstanding. Everyone had thought they knew the reason for the sundering of the races, and he had not bothered to correct them. It had haunted him, however, especially after Oropher's actions at Barad-dur. How much of his cousin's decision to ignore the High King's orders had been anger at Gil-Galad, and how much at him? He had never known, and since his cousin had fallen--or so he had long thought--in the battle, he had assuaged his conscience by telling himself that it no longer mattered, that it was all in the past. But now the past may have found him once more.  
  
Erestor followed the little orc further into blackness, his thoughts far darker than the mines around him. If Oropher did still live, he had had centuries to brood over the events that had brought him to his fate. Erestor had no doubt that their past relationship had provided a good deal of fodder for thought, and for plans for revenge. It occurred to him as almost funny that, while everyone else in their group worried about the threat posed by the orcs, he was far more concerned about meeting a certain elf.   
  
* * *  
  
TBC 


	37. Chapter ThirtySeven

Title: Wild Justice 37/37  
  
Author: Rune Dancer  
  
Rating: R   
  
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin  
  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline.   
  
Warnings: BDSM.   
  
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused.   
  
* * *  
  
Glorfindel glanced at Erestor as his friend stumbled over some small irregularity in the tunnel floor. It was surprising to see him clumsy, especially under the circumstances when stealth so important, but then, none of them was exactly at their best. He was in considerable pain from the wound in his side that, while no longer bleeding thanks to Elrohir's ministrations, was also far from healed. As far as he knew, Erestor had not been seriously wounded in any of their skirmishes, but then, it would be just like him to say nothing if he had. Glorfindel still did not know what had been troubling his friend for so long, but at the moment did not have energy enough to worry about it. His mind was consumed with finding the elves as quickly as possible and getting back to Elrohir, before his foolish lover did something very brave and very stupid.  
  
Glorfindel sighed as the tunnel continued to wind its way inexorably downward. He didn't see what else he could have done about Elrohir, as he technically did not have the right to order him about or to keep him from coming on the expedition if he chose to do so. Locking him in a room in Lorien would doubtless have been a waste of time, as Elrohir would have freed himself within a short time and followed them anyway. Alone, he would have been at risk even more than with the company, and Glorfindel might not know where he was. Of course, that was likely true in any case, as it was almost certain that Elrohir had not stayed in the glade where they had left him. He might have done so for a few hours, of course, but when the attack on the mine took such a long time, Glorfindel had known he would follow them.   
  
He was fairly certain that Elrohir would be sensible enough not to attempt to assault the main entrance alone, as none but an absolute maniac would try something so certain to failure. But, when he saw that it remained unmolested by their party, he would almost certainly begin looking for another entrance. They had to finish their business before he found one, or . . . Glorfindel shuddered at the very thought of his lover climbing about these dark passageways all alone, without even the small comforts of a company of fellow elves and a few lanterns. No, better not to think of that. It had taken them a long time to find the secondary entrance; with any luck, they would finish their business and be out again before Elrohir found a way in.  
  
The slope on which they were walking made a sudden slant sharply downward, causing the elves to have to hold on to the crumbling walls in order to maintain their footing. It would have been a perfect place for an ambush, and Glorfindel kept his free hand on the knives at his belt to be ready at a moment's notice, but to his surprise and relief, nothing happened. A few moments later the steeply sloping corridor gave out onto a huge cavern, which was so dim that Glorfindel recognised its size more by the tiny echoes of their footfalls and the change in air currents than by actual sight.   
  
The creature on Erestor's leash abruptly gave a small mewl of distress, having obviously sighted something in the darkness below, but Glorfindel could not see what had disturbed it. He nonetheless scrambled to keep up with Erestor, who was being pulled along by his guide at a dangerous pace down a narrow, crumbling pathway. A very long, harrowing time later they reached the cavern floor. Long before that, Glorfindel had grasped that something momentous was happening below, as flashes of light and orcish screams echoed through the cavern. The light, which he supposed came from wildly swinging lanterns, was not frequent enough to allow him to make out much of what was going on, but as his eyes slowly adjusted, he saw a mass of bodies that appeared to be nothing more than a confused bundle. Then he tripped over something on the floor and looked down to see an orc glaring up at him, its hand wrapped about his ankle. He had already severed its head from its shoulders before he realised that it had already been dead, its sightless eyes merely reflecting the light from the lantern held by the elf behind him.  
  
Now he saw, in the dim puddle of light from the lantern, a carpet of orc corpses covering the ground like a blanket, all leading to where . . . "Elrohir!"  
  
His lover never even looked up. Elrohir stood on the edge of a precipice that disappeared into darkness behind him, a shackled elf at his side. In front of him was a host of orcs and a tall, hooded figure that wielded a dark blade that did not glint in the lantern light as the other weapons did, but seemed to absorb any illumination that came near it into its darkness. Elrohir had his own sword in his hand and was somehow keeping the orcish blades at bay while also holding off the wide strokes of the tall figure. Glorfindel saw in an instant that, although Elrohir had positioned himself well with the precipice at his back to prevent attack from one angle at least, his position was ultimately hopeless. He must tire eventually and his enemies would overwhelm him. They did not even need to use their weapons, but just to force him into the abyss.   
  
Glorfindel did not know where Elrohir's assistants were, but obviously he must have had some. The cave floor was almost covered in dead orcs, and no one elf could possible be responsible for so many all on his own. But the only other elf in sight was the dirty creature at Elrohir's elbow who was aiding him as well as his heavy chains allowed. Glorfindel hoped the others had not already been killed, but if they had, they must have disappeared into the abyss or were hidden under one of the piles of dead orcs, as no elvin bodies were in evidence. Glorfindel pushed aside such thoughts as irrelevant at the moment and began carving a path through the remaining goblins towards his lover. It was not until he had managed to get halfway across the cave that he saw something that almost stopped him in his tracks. Elrohir was fighting with his eyes closed.  
  
There was something terribly familiar about Elrohir's actions, something that resonated with a horrible deadening feeling in Glorfindel's stomach. He had seen this battle before. The pose taken by his lover, the almost balletic quality of his thrusts and parries, even the abyss behind him. It was different in appearance, as the gloomy mines did not at all resemble Fountain Court except for the piles of dead orcs littered about, but the arrangement was exactly the same. And he knew perfectly well what would happen next; he had, after all, seen it in nightmares for years.  
  
"No!" Glorfindel threw his knives at the figure facing Elrohir, but although they hit it squarely, they did little harm, passing through almost as if it wasn't even there. That answered the question of what Elrohir faced, at least. Only the Nazgul were so impervious to conventional weapons, being little more than spirits already. Glorfindel knew that killing one of the nine would not be possible, but getting it into that abyss would certainly buy them time.   
  
He ran flat out towards the two combatants, ignoring the orcs that slashed at him as he dodged through their numbers. They thickened as he came closer to his lover's position, but by then, his own assistants had arrived. So focused was he on his goal that he barely noticed when Camthalion speared an orc that had aimed a sword at his heart, or when the rest of the Noldor set up a parameter around him. Their outer circle held back the pressing hordes of orcs with their swords while the inner one drew their bows and began picking off goblins that were hidden in crevasses in the rocks, aiming arrows at their company. Glorfindel ignored all of them, concentrating only on killing the orcs that lay between him and Elrohir.   
  
He had not aided Elrohir on that day so long ago; he had not been able to do so, for the fight was almost over before he even reached Fountain Court, and the battle with the orcs outside it had prevented him reaching his lover's side. He had watched with disbelieving eyes as Elrohir dodged Gothmog's blows, much as he was doing with those of the hooded figure now. He had seen him seem to tire, heard Gothmog's victory cry bellow out over the court, then watched as Elrohir picked up one of the huge spears wielded by members of his household and use the balrog's moment of inattention to impel him back a final few feet into the waters of the great fountain. Glorfindel had not seen what happened next very clearly, as the billows of steam that resulted from Gothmog thrashing about as his very essence was consumed by the crystalline waters, had all but obscured the scene. But he had heard Elrohir's scream of rage, and seen that the balrog had managed to retain a tenuous hold on the very edge of the fountain, preventing himself from plunging to his death in its deepest depths.   
  
Glorfindel had known a bare instant before it happened what Elrohir would do--had watched helpless as he launched himself from the safety of the fountain's edge directly onto the steaming body of the balrog, and seen with something far beyond horror his lover hack at the grasping hand with his sword until Gothmog's grip failed and they both sank to their doom, still slashing at each other on the way down. Now Glorfindel saw past his own battles to watch in deja vu at the way Elrohir slowly gave way, falling back to the point where his feet were a scant few inches from the edge of the precipice, forcing the hooded figure to follow if he wanted to keep him within range of his blows. He saw Elrohir suddenly seem to lose his balance, heard the hooded figure give an eerily familiar cry, then rush forward with his sword to attempt the final blow. In a movement almost too fast to be seen, Elrohir dodged the dark blade and grasped the figure's wrist. With one huge tug, he pulled it over the ledge and into the abyss below.  
  
Yet Glorfindel knew it wasn't over, as the Nazgul did not accept defeat so easily. It was without any surprise at all that he saw a spectral hand grasping the very edge of the ledge beside Elrohir's feet. A second later, another hand emerged from the darkness, latching onto Elrohir's ankle and causing him to scream in pain and rage. Busy holding off the orcs with his blade, Elrohir could not free himself from the creature's hold. The elf at his side tried to assist, but his assailant was too strong and refused to let go. Elrohir was teetering on the edge, hard pressed from in front by orcs and from behind was being pulled slowly the last few inches toward darkness.   
  
Glorfindel gave the battle cry of his house and launched himself over the heads of the remaining orcs, grabbing at his lover just as Elrohir lost his grip completely. They crashed to the cave floor together, Elrohir half on the ledge and half off it, Glorfindel using all his strength to counter the pull of the thing that still held onto Elrohir from below. An orcish blade arced down toward him, but was deflected at the last minute by Erestor's sword, which came out of the darkness to catch it scant inches from Glorfindel's chest. The ring of mithril on mithril was almost deafening at such close range, but Glorfindel refused to be distracted by it or by his close call. Erestor would have to manage the fight somehow on his own, for he was doing all he could not to allow Elrohir to disappear from his life a second time.   
  
"Glorfindel--the princess--you have to get her out of here! Forget about me, just go!"   
  
It took Glorfindel a moment to realise that, although his lover's eyes had opened and he met his gaze, he was still seeing another place and time. Erestor was also acting strangely, having stopped fighting to stare with a panicked expression at the filthy, emaciated elf at their side, who was managing to defend himself from the pressing orcs with what looked like one of Elrohir's knives. "Erestor!" Glorfindel kicked his friend hard in the shin and the pain of the blow seemed to bring Erestor out of his reverie. "Help me! I can't hold on much longer!" Two things happened at once: Erestor grabbed Glorfindel's leg and began to pull backwards, and the tattered elf looked up, huge green eyes fixing themselves on Erestor with an intensity that Glorfindel had rarely seen in any face. Then he launched himself, not at the surrounding orcs, but straight at Erestor.   
  
Glorfindel heard his friend scream and saw Cam's head turn in their direction from where he was butchering orcs with great efficiency a few yards away. Then he suddenly found himself able to gain real purchase on the crumbling ledge for the first time as the captive elf's aid added just enough extra weight on their side to tip the balance. He scrambled inelegantly backwards, towing Elrohir along with him. The creature clinging to Elrohir's ankles gave a high-pitched shriek that grated horribly on Glorfindel's eardrums, but kept hold of its prize. Elrohir turned his head back to look at it, then kicked out savagely. "For Elbereth's sake . . . why . . . won't you . . . JUST DIE?" A second later, the hooded figure was caught squarely in the face by one of Elrohir's blows and lost its hold at last. The sudden lack of opposition caused the whole string of elves to tumble backwards into a confused pile, while the Elrohir's attacker scrabbled desperately at the ledge but failed to find purchase. Finally, it disappeared into the chasm with a horrible screech and Glorfindel clasped his lover to his chest, shielding his suddenly limp form from the hail of blows descending on them from all sides.  
  
* * *  
  
Elrohir awoke, finding to his disgust that he had drooled all over his copybook. Just great; Glorfindel would NOT be pleased, and he was already in enough trouble for that little prank on Elladan the other day. He scrubbed at the damp pages with his sleeve and glanced about fearfully, praying not to see his harsh tutor glaring at him with his usual antipathy. Luckily Glorfindel seemed to have taken a break from supervising his punishment, and Elrohir took the opportunity to scrub harder, hoping to repair the damage before he was required to show his work.   
  
The old book he had been copying lay open to the story of Gondolin's fall, the once bright colours of its illustration now sadly faded after hundreds of years. After leaving his brother tied in the map room for an entire afternoon, Elrohir had been set the task of copying out the written passages in a clear hand, so that an accurate double of the book could be created by Imladris' artists before it faded too much to be useable. All his protestations that he had meant to come back and release Elladan, but had just forgotten, had availed him nothing. So now, on a bright sunny day, he sat in the dim library with only dull old Glorfindel for company. No wonder he had fallen asleep!  
  
Elrohir sighed as he realised that the page was hopelessly smudged and would have to be recopied from the beginning. Great. Glorfindel would probably be back any time and expect him to show a good afternoon's work, and when he couldn't, no doubt he would be sentenced to some more taxing punishment. Elrohir's gloomy thoughts were interrupted by a strange sight that appeared beyond the library windows. A small figure dressed in leaf green clothes with a Lorien look about them was strolling among the flowers, her elaborate auburn braids cascading messily about her little face. Dwarves were not exactly thick on the ground in Imladris, although his father had never turned away any who sought refuge. Still, it was odd.  
  
His copybook momentarily forgotten, Elrohir rose and went closer to the window for a better look at the small figure. She had been joined, he now saw, by an elf who looked vaguely familiar, although Elrohir could not immediately place him. Blond, obviously Silvan . . . oh yes. It was Rumil, Haldir's brother, whom he had met at . . . but no. He couldn't have met him in Lorien. He had not been there since he was a very small elfling, and yet, the images in his mind seemed fresh, as if they had just happened. But he could not grasp hold of any of them; whenever he tried, pain flared behind his eyes giving him the beginnings of a nasty headache.   
  
Turning from the window, Elrohir resolutely began copying again at as swift a pace as he could manage and still have his writing remain legible. He ignored the two outside the window after watching Rumil pluck a small flower for the dwarf, which he gently tucked into her hair. Elrohir shook his head in disbelief; that was one for the storybooks. After they wandered out of view, he concentrated on getting as many words as possible down on a new, clean sheet of parchment before his tutor returned to castigate him for laziness. Of course, it was all useless, some part of his brain commented. No matter how fast he copied, he could never make up a whole afternoon's work in a few minutes, so punishment was a foregone conclusion. And if that was true, why not enjoy the day? He pushed the temptation away, but it was soon back, reinforced by the sight of two more elves who were not wasting a beautiful afternoon.   
  
Elrohir was so surprised to recognise one of them as Erestor that he again abandoned his book and approached the window. Yes, that was definitely old Erestor in another of those hideously uncomfortable looking robes he preferred. This one was--surprise--black and made him look even pudgier than usual. Strangely, the tall, very attractive elf with him didn't seem to mind, but was looking at him with a ridiculously infatuated expression on his face. He had a Noldorin look about him, but oddly enough was dressed in Lorien attire. Two strangers in Lorien clothes in one afternoon? It was odd to be sure, but perhaps a delegation had arrived unexpectedly.   
  
Elrohir moved reluctantly back to his work, wondering about the almost blissful expression Erestor had been wearing before the two passed along the garden path and out of view. True, Erestor was not involved with anyone that he knew about, and technically was free to take a lover if he chose. Yet Elrohir had to stifle a giggle at the thought of stuffy old Erestor in a romantic situation. He could only hope the Noldor was experienced enough for both of them!  
  
Elrohir had barely resumed copying when he heard the door to the schoolroom open and felt rather than saw Glorfindel's entrance. He kept his eyes on his book, ignoring the feeling that he was being watched. It wouldn't be the first time, after all. Glorfindel had always watched him carefully, as if expecting him to grow another head or something. Elladan actually played far more pranks than he ever had, but did he get in trouble for any of them? No, and not because he was more subtle; Elbereth knew that had never been his brother's forte. No, it was because Glorfindel always seemed to know every thing he did, while almost ignoring Elladan's antics. He had lost count of the times he had looked up at dinner or at the stables or in the gardens, and seen that bright blue gaze on him. He knew why, of course. Glorfindel had never liked him, and was just waiting for an opportunity to catch him out in some new infraction of the rules, which would result in another long afternoon copying some boring old text while he was glared at by his tutor. It just wasn't fair.  
  
Yet Elrohir had no intention of giving into temptation and throwing something across the room, preferably at his tutor's blond head. No, for Glorfindel would just love that. It would give him the excuse to extend Elrohir's punishment to weeks instead of days, and ruin all the fun of summer. Glorfindel was just jealous because he didn't have any fun, so resented anyone else doing so. He ought to follow Erestor's example and get himself a young lover, then maybe his temper would improve!  
  
"Have a productive afternoon, Elrohir?" Glorfindel's hand snaked out and lifted the copybook before Elrohir could complain, not that it mattered. He couldn't very well have refused to show his work. "Barely a page? My, but that does seem rather a . . . limited accomplishment . . . for an entire afternoon, does it not?"  
  
"I, er, I fell asleep, sir." Elrohir did not meet his tutor's eyes, not wanting to see the triumph in them. His little lapse was just the sort of thing Glorfindel had probably been waiting for--Elrohir could forget about getting any free time from here to the solstice. He would probably be busy copying over the entire library!  
  
"You fell asleep?" The usual bite in his tutor's tone was absent, Elrohir noticed with surprise; instead, he just sounded thoughtful. "Then no doubt you need to rest. You can finish this tomorrow."  
  
Elrohir looked up in disbelief. Was he really getting off that easily? No, it couldn't be. No doubt Glorfindel was planning something truly awful for the next day's punishment and needed more time to prepare. That had to be it. Still, Elrohir wondered if his old tutor felt all right, for he looked a bit pale and had an odd look in his eyes as he watched him leave the classroom. Oh well, maybe his lack of recreation was finally getting to him, or perhaps he was sick. Elrohir could not imagine why the thought that Glorfindel might be unwell upset him, but he decided to go find his father and casually mention it anyway. Just to shut his stupid conscience up, or he would be worrying about it all night. If a Lorien delegation had arrived, that meant presents from the grandparents at dinner and he wanted to enjoy them without guilt ruining everything.  
  
He finally found his father in, conveniently enough, the healing chambers. Good, then mentioning Glorfindel's illness wouldn't seem so strange. Oddly, his father was laughing as Elrohir paused in the doorway--a strange enough occurrence in itself as Elrond tended to be surrounded by a faint air of melancholy, even on happy occasions--but it was even more mysterious when Elrohir noted that no one else was in the room. He watched his father warily without making his presence known, and a few seconds later his fears were confirmed when Elrond laughed again and spoke aloud.   
  
"I quite agree, but you always said we should never be afraid to experiment. Besides, these inventions of Galadriel's are extremely uncomfortable. It should be possible to achieve the same effect without having to wear anything actually in my eyes. A potion of some sort should do it . . . " He trailed off, humming to himself, while Elrohir backed slowly out the door.   
  
He paused in the corridor to regain his breath, which he had unconsciously been holding, and attempted to drive down his panic. So father was taking to himself. That didn't necessarily mean anything, right? He had never known him to do it before, true, but he was hardly with Ada every minute of every day, was he? This sort of thing could have been going on for years . . . somehow, he did not find that thought at all reassuring. He wondered what he should do as he walked back up the stairs to the main part of the house, his head in a whirl.   
  
What he saw in the main hall was the strangest sight yet, however, for two handsome blond elves, one of whom he somehow knew was Thranduil of Mirkwood, were being greeted warmly by his grandfather. The Mirkwood ruler had never before visited Imladris, due to the somewhat frosty relations between the two realms. Stranger still, Celeborn seemed rather reluctant to release Thranduil from the friendly hug he had given him in welcome. "This is a truly wondrous day!," he enthused when he finally stepped back, after the other blond coughed slightly to let them know that the embrace had dragged on longer than was proper. "We shall celebrate our victory properly tonight!"   
  
"Yes, well, we are delighted to be here." Thranduil straightened his elaborate moss green robes carefully as he answered, but he looked very pleased about something. The other elf caught sight of Elrohir then, and motioned him to join them. Elrohir reluctantly left the stairwell and went forward, wishing for a chance to go somewhere quiet and think, but knowing his duty to the household.   
  
The usual courtesies were exchanged, but Elrohir barely heard them. The elf at Thranduil's side was introduced as Oropher, his father, and Celeborn did not so much as bat an eye when he said it. Elrohir regarded his grandfather in shock, and added another name to the suspect list. First old Erestor acquired a lover, then Glorfindel decided to be lenient, father started talking to himself, and now grandfather was introducing him to an elf everyone knew had been dead since Barad-dur. And no one seemed to find this at all odd except for him. Elrohir smiled faintly, remembering hearing somewhere that it was best to humour the mentally ill, but slipped away when Celeborn offered to show the visitors to their rooms.   
  
There was no longer any doubt--something was seriously wrong at Imladris and it was up to him to save the day as he seemed to be the only one unaffected. Passing out the front door in search of somewhere quiet, Elrohir bumped into Gildor, one of his father's agents, who was looking far better than his usual bedraggled state. His hair was combed and properly braided for once and he was wearing a brilliant red tunic. At his side was a blond elf who looked vaguely familiar, also attired in red and also grinning broadly. Elrohir ignored him, however; Gildor had always been sensible, perhaps he could shed some light on all this.   
  
"Gildor, could I talk with you a moment?"   
  
The two elves exchanged glances, and for some reason Gildor looked suddenly worried. "Elrohir?," he said the name almost as if it was a question, which made no sense as Gildor had known him practically since birth. Apparently whatever madness was going about had affected him as well.   
  
"Never mind!" Elrohir brushed past the two quickly and headed down the stairs, intent on reaching the quiet and saneness of the woods before anyone else demonstrated signs of madness. What could be causing this? Was it something in the water? Was this some elaborate orcish plot to make them vulnerable to attack? That must be it! Somehow they had to be snapped out of it before disaster struck. Elrohir looked fearfully at the sun, which was getting lower on the horizon with every passing minute. Everyone knew orcs preferred to attack at night; whatever he was going to do, then, he had to be quick!   
  
Running back for the house, Elrohir was never so glad in his life to see his brother just dismounting from his horse. Thank the Valar! Elladan might be a bit dull at times, and somewhat lacking in imagination, but he was mercifully level headed and overall one of the sanest elves Elrohir knew. Before he could call out, however, another blow fell, this time in the form of the handsome Silvan at Elladan's side, who laughingly pulled him into a passionate embrace before they walked into the house, arms about each other. Elrohir felt the earth spin below him, and he put out a hand to a tree to steady himself. They had gotten to Elladan, no question about it. His brother had never even looked at a male elf in such a way, much less kissed one, when in his right mind! Was there no one left sane in all Imladris except for him?   
  
He vaguely realised that the tree against which he was leaning was trying to say something, and he cleared his mind enough to be able to pick up its meaning. After all, if the people in Imladris were mad, perhaps he would have to rely on other types of aid. Within a few moments, however, he was backing away from the vegetation with a look of abject panic on his face. The trees had even caught it! The images it had sent of he and Glorfindel rolling around on the grass and . . . why, that was just . . . just . . . urgh! How awful! He would have those images in his head for days now; he might even be traumatized for life! He couldn't imagine why it would do such a horrible thing, much less why it was offering him congratulations. He was NOT bonding to Glorfindel! The very idea was, well, as mad as the rest of his day.   
  
He ran up the stairs of the palace and made his way swiftly to his rooms. He didn't attempt to talk to anyone else, for what was the use? All of Imladris was obviously insane, and night was just hours away. The orcs would come and they would die, it was as simple as that. How had it come to this? What witchcraft could turn an elf's own mind against him? Elrohir flopped onto his bed and stared at his ceiling, trying to come up with a plan, but nothing seemed likely to work. Then suddenly it came to him. Of course! Grandmother would know what to do, and she always radiated calmness and sanity. Surely, together they could devise a plan for saving Imladris, and perhaps whatever had been done to all these poor elves could be reversed, or would wear off in time.  
  
Praying that his grandmother had decided to accompany Celeborn to Imladris, and that he could find her before something happened to stop him, Elrohir crossed to the door of his room and put a hand to the handle, just to have it swing inwards on him. There in his doorway was what looked like a delegation: his father, grandparents, Erestor, and, standing behind all of them looking grave, was Glorfindel. "Grandmother!" Elrohir could have done without the others, but he was extremely relieved to see that Galadriel was, indeed, at Imladris. "I need to talk to you, alone." He looked pointedly at the rest of the party, but no one moved.   
  
"Dearest Elrohir," Galadriel looked at him sadly. "You must be very confused."   
  
"With all due respect, grandmother, I am not the one confused around here." He was wondering how to get her alone, as accusing her companions of madness in front of her was hardly diplomatic, when she stepped forward with a small vial in her hand.   
  
"It is still too early for this," she commented, "and I would have preferred to put it off for another few years at least, but I fear that, under the circumstances, that might do more harm than good. Drink it, Elrohir, and things will become much clearer, I promise. After all, we can't have you like this, can we?" She smiled at him gently. "You have a wedding to attend, you know."  
  
Elrohir backed slowly away from her, horror filling him. Oh Ulmo, oh Elbereth! No, no, no--this couldn't be! They had gotten to grandmother, too, and now were trying to get her to infect him. He regarded the vial in her hand with despair. That must be it--the concoction the orcs had used to distort everyone's perceptions. He had been right all along, and now he was the only sane one left! No! They were not getting that evil brew into him--he wasn't going to become one of them, no matter what he had to do to prevent it.  
  
"Keep away from me," he warned, mildly surprised that his voice was so steady. The windows were still quite far away, but with luck he could reach them before anyone grabbed him. It was a long way to the ground if he should slip, of course, but that was just a chance he would have to take.   
  
"He's going for the window--get him!" It was Erestor who cried out the warning, but Celeborn who managed to latch hold of him just as his foot touched the windowsill. He was efficiently wrestled to the ground by some of the greatest warriors of several ages and soon found himself staring up into his father's face. He must have already been infected, he thought dazedly, because Elrond currently seemed to have one blue and one grey eye. A second later and a noxious brew was being forced down him, despite his every attempt to avoid it. He was released as quickly as he'd been captured, as soon as all the drought had been swallowed. He regarded the group before him with sullen eyes, not knowing what to say.   
  
"You've doomed us all. They'll come for us as soon as it's dark, and how are we supposed to fight them off now?" He saw the group exchange looks, but no one said anything. One by one they all filed out, except, he noticed when the door finally closed, for Glorfindel. Great, so he was to be left with a babysitter until he went completely loony. Why they thought it necessary he couldn't imagine; after all, even if he shimmied down the side of the house, where could he go? The orcs were probably already on their way, and it wasn't as if he could battle them alone.  
  
"We're all going to die." Glorfindel just continued to regard him solemnly, not moving from his position by the door. "I guess this means I don't have to finish all that copying though." It was a poor joke, and Glorfindel had never been noted for his sense of humour, so Elrohir was not particularly surprised to receive no response. He sat on the edge of his bed and sighed, rubbing a hand across his eyes. His head hurt; probably that cursed substance was poisoned. Oh well, it would just save the orcs the trouble, he supposed.  
  
Orcs. Elrohir blinked as a random thought meandered through his mind. Something . . . something about orcs. Why was it he couldn't . . . a flash of an image . . . orange and red and the black of smoke--a burning city . . .   
  
He shook his head to clear it but it didn't help. Balrogs . . . dragons . . . where was Glorfindel? They must buy him time to save Turgon, to rescue the princess . . .  
  
Elrohir gasped and fell back against the bed as a flood of images filled his mind all at once. Precipice . . . have to get to the elves . . . Tuor, you traitor! . . . must free the slaves . . . Gondolin! By the Valar, the White City has fallen! . . . have to tell Eirien, we must regroup . . .   
  
He barely felt the arms that encircled him, or heard the murmured words of comfort and of love. Glorfindel . . . so beautiful, his golden flower . . .   
  
"Glorfindel?" So perfect . . . but so angry at him . . . bright blue eyes flashing like sapphires in the sun. "I stole your sash. I'm sorry."  
  
"Shh. It's all right. I have others."  
  
"And your horse . . . and in your tent that time . . . I didn't mean to confuse you. I wasn't really laughing at you . . . "  
  
"I know. Don't worry."  
  
"I . . . what happened to the elves? Glorfindel, did we get them out? Are they . . . "  
  
"Shh. They're fine. The ones you sent out of the caves have all recovered, and even Oropher is well on his way back to health. He and Thranduil are here to personally thank you when you are better. I must say I was surprised at the change--Oropher is not the elf I used to know."  
  
"But he'll be all right?"   
  
"Yes, in fact, I would say that he is . . . strangely improved after his ordeal. I almost didn't know him. Hundreds of years of introspection can make quite a difference, I suppose."  
  
"Then, it all worked out." Elrohir could barely believe it. He wouldn't have given a penny for his chances--for any of them. The room still seemed to be spinning about him, and he had a hundred questions, but he felt safe in Glorfindel's embrace.  
  
"Yes, everyone is fine. Celeborn and Thranduil trapped the orcish army in the Pallas Pass and diverted the river onto them. A force from Lorien helped with the mopping up--I would be surprised if a hundred orcs got out of that trap alive. You were the only one we were worried about. You passed out after we pulled you away from the precipice and didn't wake up for two days. When you did, you could remember nothing, and we were so afraid . . . " Glorfindel pulled him closer, hugging him fiercely. "I wasn't sure what to do," he whispered. "So we allowed you to think what you wanted until we had time to confer. It was hoped your memory would come back on its own, but when it didn't . . . "  
  
Elrohir didn't want to dwell on the more depressing aspects. He had just realised that the mine slaves were all right and he and his lover were safely back in Imladris. He also grasped that what he had seen this day were signs of a huge celebration being planned. "So, who's getting married? Haldir and Gildor?"  
  
"Er, no." Glorfindel looked a little shy suddenly. "Although they are planning a ceremony to take place soon. Apparently, you had Elladan and Orophin try to convince Thranduil that they were bonding as part of some scheme . . . "  
  
"I remember. It was Erestor's idea. He thought we could substitute you and me at the last minute, and then Thranduil would have to marry us because he couldn't very well refuse in front of half of Lorien. Then he'd be the guarantor of the match and would have to leave us alone. But it didn't turn out to be necessary."  
  
"But apparently no one bothered to inform the cooks and seamstresses about that, and quite a number of plans have already been made. Elladan and Orophin do not feel quite ready to, er, finalize things, so Haldir and Gildor will get quite an elaborate bonding when they return to Lorien."  
  
"But who is getting married here then? Never say Erestor!"  
  
"I don't think Erestor is exactly the marrying kind, although I received the impression that he is definitely off the market from now on."  
  
"Then who?"  
  
Elrohir watched in puzzlement as Glorfindel walked to his wardrobe and pulled it open, taking out a very familiar suit of bright mithril armor. He blinked at it, sure that his eyes were deceiving him. It should be residing at the bottom of a very deep fountain. Glorfindel cleared his throat. "We never recovered the original, as you were wearing it when . . . in any case, I had the artisans here make this long ago, shortly after your birth in fact. We had to adjust it a little, but it should fit . . . "  
  
Elrohir looked at his lover's face, reflected in the shiny surface the armor, and smiled. Suddenly, everything seemed right with the world once more. "Just wait until I tell Lothion. He has a lot of work to do if his master is about to be wed!"  
  
* * *  
  
The End  
  
Thank you to all who reviewed at any point in this process. Fan fiction is a collaborative effort, so many other people should really be listed as co-authors for all the ideas and encouragement they gave along the way. Special thanks to Alex, Meg, Larian, Celebrethil, Dis Thrainsdotter, Ithilessar, Blue, Crydwyn, Renee, and many more I probably forgot. I hope you had fun reading, as I did writing.  
  
Namarie 


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